Finding Your Happy Place

Although it’s hard for me to leave the lush Hawaiian valley I call home, I travel to the mainland about twice a year to visit the friends and family who would otherwise spend a disproportionate amount of time and effort visiting me. Two weeks ago, I got up early, drank one last cup of tea on the porch of the tiny hut which holds my kitchen, turned off the water lines and solar system, loaded my suitcase into a red and grey wheelbarrow shiny with rain, and pushed it through the tall grass. By the time I got to the riverbank where my neighbor was waiting with his truck, my feet were slimy with mud, and the “nice” pants I’d selected for the plane were speckled with the dirt and grit flung up by my sandals with every step.  

I used to despair at the impossibility of making it off my remote homestead in a presentable state. I would get to the airport and feel self-conscious about the burrs on my sweater and the soggy black footprints my boots left on the floor, or the hair I’d forgotten to brush for several days. Now I find comfort in the mud that clings to my ankles and the dirt that hitches a ride under my fingernails. I feel claimed by the valley, as if its steep green walls are saying, Sure, take a trip, but don’t forget where you belong. 

 

 

My first few days in the city are always bewildering. I feel shocked by the presence of so many cars, on so many streets and overwhelmed by the social events that involve not only my close friends, but friends of friends, acquaintances, and strangers. I marvel at the assortment of tasty foods I rarely eat back home: vegan ice cream made from cashews, cups of coffee which are so much stronger than the green tea I normally drink, and mainland fruits like apples and blueberries. 

I can tell that these trips to the “real” world are good for me. I learn a lot from my city friends, who are involved in art, politics, and activism in a way I cannot be, living in as secluded a location as I do. They expose me to new ideas and new experiences I would never encounter in the cozy confines of the valley walls, and I drink these things up thirstily, newly conscious of the limits of my knowledge and perspective. The conversations I have outside the valley serve as a bulwark against the complacency that can settle in when I speak only to the same small group of neighbors day after day, mulling over the same set of hyper-local concerns. I remember (with some shock) that the tiny rural community where I live is not, in fact, the center of the universe, and that there’s more to life than broken chainsaws, lost dogs, and rivers that flood just when you were hoping to go to town. 

But no matter how much I appreciate these aspects of my visits to the city, it’s only a matter of days before a sense of despair comes over me. How can my friends live with so much noise, all day every day? How can they live without trees to prune or gardens to tend? How can they accept an orange sky at night, the stars nowhere to be seen? How can they live so much in their minds, without tools to tinker with or structures to build?  

I open up a map on my internet browser, and gaze morosely at the grid of streets, calculating how far I would have to walk to reach a forest. The thought of driving in a car just to go for a walk in the woods is shocking to me. Instead, I take long walks around the neighborhood, my mind filled with complaints at the absence of tall trees. I spend more time reading and writing, taking advantage of the relative absence of physical labor, and do my best not to seem too affronted by city life—after all, this is my friends’ home. 

I remind myself that many visitors to my homestead feel an equal and opposite sense of discomfort about my living situation. They put on a brave face, while privately asking themselves: How can she live without art galleries, restaurants, people? How can she live in such tiny, ramshackle structures, without a washing machine, a toaster, or a fridge? How can she talk to the same handful of people day after day, hardly ever meeting anyone new? They gaze at the thick forest and feel just as lost as I do when I contemplate the endless grid of city streets. They try their best not to seem too affronted by the mosquitos or the perpetual damp in their clothes, but when I drive them back to town on their last day, their spirits visibly brighten—just as mine does when I get ready to leave the city and go back to the forest again. 

 

 

The late Thich Nhat Hahn wrote, “There is no path to happiness; happiness is the path.” In other words, happiness is a practice that we can work with daily, no matter where we are in the world. True happiness isn’t a thing we find when we’re finally in the ideal environment or with the ideal group of people, but can instead be the magic sauce that transforms anywhere we go into the ideal place, and anybody we’re with into the ideal person or group of people.  

That being said, it can feel so much harder to practice happiness when you’ve formed a strong opinion about something. The mind says, “How could anyone be happy here, under these circumstances?” In its ever-so-helpful way, the mind builds a case for unhappiness, and argues that case unrelentingly. When my mind does this, I can very quickly convince myself that the only place I can be happy in the entire world is the six-by-twelve porch where I drink my tea in the mornings when I’m at home in Hawaii—thirty-six square feet, on a 5,610,000,000,000,000 square foot planet! I start to wonder if maybe, just maybe, my mind is exaggerating. 

 

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When I’m feeling those waves of stress and anguish in the city, it can be easy to tell myself that any time I spend outside the valley is time I am squandering. Having been given the precious opportunity to live in such a special place, why am I wasting a single moment outside of it? By maintaining friendships and connections in the outside world, aren’t I diluting the intensity of my experience as a solitary homesteader in a wild and remote part of the earth? Maybe I should rush home, close the gate behind me, and devote myself to the worship of those misty green cliffs, letting the noisy and confusing outside world carry on without me. 

At the same time, I know from experience the importance of practicing when it isn’t easy. Whether you’re training for a marathon, learning an instrument, or trying to master the unruliness of your own mind, some of the most important learning happens when conditions aren’t ideal. In the city, happiness can be an uphill jog; it makes me sweat, and I’m not used to sweating quite so much. But just like a challenging run, I suspect that it also strengthens my heart, increases my lung capacity, and helps me correct the weaknesses that I would otherwise overlook for years at a time. 

 

 

After my predictable meltdown around the halfway point of a visit to the city, I usually find my footing again. I wean myself off the brain-frying cups of black coffee that I can’t seem to keep myself from drinking when I’m there and return to my little thermos of green tea. I find a quiet place to meditate, even if it means perching on a pile of suitcases in my friends’ cluttered basement. I go to the forest, even if it means a long bus ride or a nerve-wracking drive on the freeway. Most importantly, I remind myself to practice happiness, the same way I would practice good posture or any other skill. 

As the overwhelm subsides, I begin to appreciate the gifts of the city once more—the wide-ranging conversations, the encounters with strangers, the convenience of doing laundry in a machine, and the opportunity to fly home with a renewed appreciation for the quiet and predictability of life in a small, rural community. I’m grateful for my life in the rainforest, and for the city friends who gently insist on expanding my world, feeding my mind, and reminding me that we are all on this journey together, whether our vantage point is a misty valley or a busy street. 

As spring arrives, I wish you all a beautiful season of flowering and growth. May you all have the opportunity to practice happiness—and to find it wherever you go. 

 

Sincerely, 

Hilary T. Smith 

Senior Editor, Hierophant Publishing