Years ago, I found happiness and actually had it hang around for six months or so.
Like actual happiness, I would wake up at peace and look forward to my days, there was joy every day of the week. I slept well at night and honestly can’t remember anything wrong happening at that point in my life.
It’s taken me 11 years to figure out what it was that made me so happy. Yes I had quite my job to chase my dreams to be an artist, and I got up when I was rested and wasn’t governed by clocks, or any other societal norms.
Over the years I tried and failed miserably to recreate that situation in a more stable and financially stable manner, and be truly happy again.
But I’ve come to realize that the art was a byproduct of what was actually making me happy.
I did art in a park downtown and there was always a stream of people that paraded by. In that stream there would be a random that would plop themselves down on my painting blanket and let me listen to them.
They would share a piece of life with me and I would actively listen to them and cultivate this spark, and as the conversation unfolded somehow one of the paintings I was working on would come to life. It would evolve from a bunch of colours and lines into something tangibly interesting.
I was happy because I had a fluid audience to listen to and communities with. Each fleeting micro-relationship special and entirely unique. And I thrived on experiencing the beauty and mutual vulnerability of it all. It was raw, natural and didn’t follow most social rules.
I had women and men alike, people in poverty and Versace wearers, Bikers (yes leathers and Harleys) and the most prim and proper devout religious individuals. All hanging out on my little painting blanket, sharing life and just existing as they actually were… deep down inside, without judgement or criticism.
Obviously this lifestyle probably wouldn’t make most people happy, but it was perfect for me at that point, and I wonder if I can find a way to incorporate it back into my life now.