Last time I wrote about a sudden sensation of—for want of a better term—”the good life”:
Have you ever been engaged in some pleasant or satisfying activity, or maybe passively enjoying an experience, when, suddenly, you become suddenly aware of it? And there’s a thrill that goes through you at the awareness of it? Here am I, doing something cool, feeling something delicious. It’s sort of the opposite of a flow state, in that it suddenly takes you out of the activity or the sensation: you become an observer of your own thoughts and feelings But in a good way, a delightful way.
The best explanation I can come up with: it’s sort of like being outside on your way somewhere, and suddenly catching your own reflection, unexpectedly, in a shop window at an odd angle, and being delighted by this vision of yourself in the midst of the world, a little glimpse from outside yourself.
I listed some of the things that give me that sensation. Drinking wine with my husband at the kitchen table, wandering around an airport, running on a lovely day. I wanted to try to interrogate (a) what do these experiences have in common, such that they all give me this same sensation? and (b) why do I want to call it the sensation of “the good life”?
I spent a good long time thinking about (a). (Notice, it’s five days since I wrote the post!) And I think I’ve come up with some answers to that part.
I tend to get this sensation when
- I’m not wholly immersed—I’m perceiving myself;
- I perceive that I am doing something “right,” not something “wrong;”
- I feel connected and belonging in some way that is important to me;
- I am having an experience that once I didn’t think was possible for me: I’m pleasantly surprised to see myself in this experience.
In some ways I think the dominant feature of all these experience is that last bit: the surprise. There’s an element to every part of it that seems to say: If only I could show this to my self of five, or ten, or twenty, or forty years ago. I’d never have believed this was possible.
And I suspect that part of what I didn’t believe was possible? The doing something right. The connectedness and the belonging.
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Sometimes the doing something “right” has to do with doing something that is, well, good for me, or doing good for someone else. So, going for a run, or making myself a plate of healthy food, or having labored to make our home comfortable and welcoming. Some other things I can think of that I didn’t list.
Other times the doing something “right” means: I’ve learned how to behave in public, and nobody around can tell that I’m actually sort of a weirdo inside. I can make small talk and smile and wear clothes and carry myself like a real adult human woman. I am organized and capable. No one will point at me and laugh.
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Sometimes the connectedness and belonging has to do with my close friends and loved ones. I’m with my grown children, who don’t NEED need me anymore, and they want to spend time with me and we can have fun together. I’m with my husband, and we are talking and laughing like old times, still interested in what each other has to say, or enjoying some other thing together. I’m with a friend who knows me and likes me a lot anyway.
Other times the connectedness and belonging has to do with something a little more, well, invisible, or even mystical. I’m in my own neighborhood,walking home from the library where I see the same patrons and librarians regularly, or from the co-op where I pick things up once or twice a week; I’m seeing the neighbors’ gardens, perhaps a friendly dog; it’s my neighborhood, I live here, I belong. I’m reading in a coffeeshop, I’m surrounded by a gentle hubbub of voices and clinking dishes and traffic outside: a crowd of people, and I belong in the crowd among them; we all have something in common today, even if it’s only this coffee shop. I’m running around the lake in the city I call home; the city we have chosen to live in for more than twenty-five years; I can see the downtown skyline, I run past the bandstand, the racks of canoes; other runners pass me, all ages, all sizes; I see people fishing off the pier, or biking in all weather; I have a sense of place, of this being my place, and these people around me also chose this place and maybe they love it too.
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What’s so unexpected about all this? Some of it I know, some of it I don’t. Once upon a time, I never expected to be much of a runner. (I’m still not much of a runner. I mean I never expected I’d run anywhere ever, let alone at least once every week or two.) Once I never expected that I’d get married at all, let alone stay happily married for as long as I have; someone told me once (over the phone, not quite to my face) that when Mark figured out what I was really like, he wouldn’t stay long. I certainly didn’t expect when I was younger that I’d want to have five children. Some part of me seems to be surprised to own a house, for some reason. I did expect to travel a lot when I was young, but then I unexpectedly spent a rather long time not traveling a lot, and that led to me being pleasantly surprised by it again now that relatively frequent travel is part of my life again.
I’m just continually surprised to find myself loved and in love, at home, and out in the world, in any sort of ease. Having built a life that isn’t always easy but is frequently enough punctuated with successes, and connections, that it is just about always satisfying.
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So that’s what all this stuff has in common: a joy and connection and satisfaction that somehow creeps up and surprises me. Look at you! it seems to say. You did not think you deserved this!
…No, I want to correct that a bit. Because goodness knows we don’t want to talk about what we deserve. It’s more:
You didn’t think you were capable of this. Or maybe: worthy.
And I really didn’t, and so it sneaks up on me and surprises me sometimes.
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That leaves me wondering if the feeling really is a positive one. Is it more an appreciation of the good things I have? Or is it a kind of mirror-image of past sorrow, or memories of a time when I didn’t think I could ever access all these things?
I’m not sure. Maybe this is the key to understanding why I think I chase that feeling a bit, for its own sake, and why I want to call it “the good life.” Even though there’s something unsatisfying about that label: and I can’t decide if it’s the label alone that is unsatisfying, or if I’ve chosen that label because it puts a finger on something that’s not quite right about the sensation, or about the chasing.
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