On happiness: The small things

That’s Happiness…

‘And then one student said that happiness is what happens when you go to bed on the hottest night of the summer, a night so hot you can’t even wear a t-shirt and you sleep on top of the sheets instead of under them, although try to sleep is probably more accurate.

At some point late, late, late at night, say just a bit before dawn, the heat finally breaks and the night turns into cool and when you briefly wake up, you notice that you’re almost chilly, and in your groggy, half-consciousness, you reach over and pull the sheet around you and just that flimsy sheet makes it warm enough and you drift back off into a deep sleep. And it’s that reaching, that gesture, that reflex we have to pull what’s warm – whether it’s something or someone – toward us, that feeling we get when we do that, that feeling of being safe in the world and ready for sleep, that’s happiness.’ – Paul Schmidtberger.

What makes us happy?

What makes you happy, what makes anyone happy? I could state the obvious. Our family, our friends, spending time with the people that we love. There is certainly nothing that buoys me up more. My family and friends, the people I love, bring me a lot of happiness.

But there are smaller, far more insignificant things that bring happiness to my life. More specific, personal things. The small things, that don’t seem important until they’re gone and then you realise they are actually really intrinsic to your well-being. Not necessarily material things either. Just feelings that come on and make you smile, almost without noticing.

Coffee, rain and silence…

The little bubbles that pop at the foamy surface of a well-made flat white while I stir in brown sugar. Similarly, the temperature of the cup in my hand as I pick it up. If the coffee has been made properly my hand will not be scalded, but just comfortably warm.

Or the reflections of city lights on a slick wet pavement or murky puddles after the rain has gone.

The sound of complete silence, save the whistle of a soft breeze through the tall grasses, a sheep bleating in the distance and the whisper of a butterfly fluttering past.

Nostalgic Scents

The sweet smell of grass cut for hay and laid out to dry in the sun. The smell of scorching meat on the BBQ. That waft of garlic on a warm summers night as I pass a house where they’re already cooking dinner.

A spritz of my favourite perfume to start my day. That earthy scent that comes after rain falls on dry soil and breaks a spell of hot weather. Bread in the toaster, homely and comforting.

Freshly cleaned laundry, especially bed sheets as I slide between them at the end of a long day. The smell of a hot water bottle just after the boiling water has been poured into it on a freezing winter’s night.

Sunsets, surprises and new adventures

That feeling when a plan comes together. Or a surprise is pulled off successfully.

The moment when the plane touches down in a brand new country. There’s a mixture of excitement, apprehension and relief that I’ve arrived. A new adventure is about to unfold.

Sunset. Red, orange, pink, peach, gold, darkening to purple and finally deep blue. The moment when the sun sinks below the horizon and the sky streaks, with candyfloss clouds. I will never see too many sunsets.

Rainbows. Waterfalls. A fantastic view – across a city, across a wilderness; from a skyscraper, from a mountain.

Spending time beside the sea

The rejuvenating energy that comes after a walk beside the sea. Salt spray, the relentless surge of water, waves clawing uselessly for a hold on the rocks. The sound of pebble on pebble as the water recedes. A split second of blissful quiet, a pause, an intake of breath, before the next breaker crashes down. If you listen hard enough, it’s always there.

Daffodils bobbing and swaying merrily in the wind, their yellow flowers cheery and unassuming.

When my alarm goes off and I realise slowly, wonderfully, in my heavy, sleep-addled mind, that it’s actually the weekend. I don’t need to get up. I hit the ‘off’ button on the alarm and turn over, cocooned beneath my duvet, to doze off again.

The moment when a new song dips, a quivering note, a mellow voice. I close my eyes and let the music kick in. It washes over me. I listen to the lyrics and they become something to me. A new meaning, a new memory.

Coming home and spring in the city

5pm. Mid February. I glance up and see that it’s still daylight outside. Winter is coming to an end.

When the plane banks low over London and I feel a bubble welling up inside me as I see the Shard reaching up to greet me back to the UK. I know I’m almost home.

Sunshine dancing through the curls of steam that rise up from a cup of tea on a lazy Sunday morning. There are no plans, the day is mine to do with what I want.

The blush of pink blossom softening London’s concrete and brick edges. Warm sunshine on my skin as I walk home. A perfect Spring day.

Apparently tiny, insignificant things…

All of these tiny, apparently insignificant day-to-day things bring me happiness. There are many other things as well, too numerous to mention.

And of course, there is that reaching, that gesture, that reflex we have to pull what’s warm – whether it’s something or someone – toward us, that feeling we get when we do that, that feeling of being safe in the world and ready for sleep. That’s happiness.

Read more from my Personal archives on subjects such as anxiety, creativity (or lack thereof!) and personal growth.