I've struggled to pick a day, and I've noticed that as I consider what to say about the happiest day of my life, my mind wants to focus on the saddest moments. I'm drawn to images of my dad lying in a coffin when I was seven, or memories of overwhelming sadness as we crossed the Canadian/US border, having buried my mom in Canada a few years ago. I am drawn to remember the shame of losing my temper, on multiple occasions, and engaging in bouts of really damaging parenting of my two step-children, who were struggling to integrate the grief of their parents' divorce and their father living far away. I am left to wonder if my mind just wants to remind me of these things so as to contrast them with a happy day...that I have yet to remember or imagine, or if my psychology simply rebels at the idea of frivolously exploring a time filled with happiness...as if to do so would betray a naivete and intolerable vulnerability.
I find, also, that I am desperate to find the correct "happiest day" as if the happiness of a day could be measured, and quantified, thus proving that May 3 objectively rated three points higher on the happiness scale than July 22. My mind wants to know that I can justify why I picked this or that day, as the happiest. I'm given to questions about whether my happiest day should be one that includes my kids, or one that doesn't include anyone. Should it be a frolicking memory from my youth or a sober memory from my more wizened years, what, exactly, is the correct choice here?
...OHHHH, THE STRESS OF IT!
For weeks, I had struggled and failed. Hour after tedious hour, each day blending into the next, a stream of failure, frustration, and anxiety. I tried again, and again, and again, and I failed repeatedly.
I made one minor adjustment and failed; I completely changed one thing and failed; I drastically changed everything and failed; I tried in a new location and failed; I tried then to carefully do what I had tried the first time and failed.
I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, turned my face to the sky, and slid my eyes open. Tentatively I started again. It seemed to be working, I started to feel excited, even elated. Just as a smile began to form on my face, the party was crashed by Dr. Catawampus, who brought failure as I thought, "you'll never get this, Mike!"
Despite the repeated, disheartening and constant failure, I remained obsessed, and honestly, were it not for this obsession, I most certainly would have already given up. My tenacity drove me to keep trying, it felt as if I was on a supernatural mission, and thus I persevered through hundreds of failed attempts, because I believed, in spite of all evidence, that if I simply kept trying, I would uncover the secret, and I would succeed.
Each day at dinner, I avoided the topic, because I did not want to discuss the series of failures. But later, as I lay in bed, drifting towards sleep, my thoughts always returned to the ongoing effort and attendant defeats. Inevitably, I lay there, weighing my options, considering the variables, and imagining how to find success. As I slept, my dreams were filled with images of success or of failure. Each morning, the obsession returned, and I found myself consumed with ideas and strategies, or with anxiety and doubt, as I cogitated over how to successfully accomplish this one task. How to successfully learn this one skill.
...How to successfully get this one thing RIGHT!
Finally, it happened one afternoon. Suddenly and unexpectedly, I succeeded. I stood there, stunned, unbelieving, and surprised. I tentatively tried again...with a second success. A smile began creeping across my face, which I stopped so that I could try one more time to ensure it wasn't a fluke.
...Again, SUCCESS!
My arms reached for the sky, as a victory cry left my mouth. I grinned and celebrated, repeating my successful actions over and over again. The environment wasn't ideal, and I wasn't sure I could repeat this success in another setting, but I was elated. A short while later, I led the most important people in my life down the hill and into the rock field. I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, slowly exhaled, and pushed off. I pushed down with my left foot, placed my right foot on the pedal, and began aptly navigating my bicycle through the rocks, as I maintained balance.
I rode towards my parents, turned away, and navigated to the asphalt. I had chosen to begin this demonstration in the rock field because that was exactly where I had first found success, so as I rode onto the asphalt surface, I experienced a moment of panic, fearing a sudden loss of balance, but my balance held, my path remained steady, and I continued to ride my bicycle. I heard mom and dad clapping as I navigated my bike around the area.
Then I stopped.
I turned to face my parents, puffed out my chest, placed my hands on my hips, and grinned the biggest grin that anyone has ever grinned.
My parents laughed and applauded. My mom said, "Wow, Mike, you've worked so hard on learning to ride that bicycle, and you did great."
My dad nodded in agreement, adding, "look at that, I couldn't be prouder of you for working so hard until you did it. I love you so much."
That night, my mom made my favorite dinner, chicken and dumplings, and after dinner, we all got in the car, my mom, my dad, my younger sister, and I. We drove to the Sonic drive-in, and each of us ordered a special dessert. I got a huge chocolate sundae. That night I went to bed with the greatest sense of happiness and contentment that anyone could imagine. Since that time, all hard-won victories carry a similar sense of happiness and accomplishment.
So, it turns out, the happiest day of my life is entirely repeatable. The circumstances may change, but the victory and the love are always present.
After my eldest son and I both earned our black belts in Chung Do Kwan, on the same day, I cried, in private, as I considered the accomplishment that we shared. He was only thirteen years old, and already he had earned a black belt in martial arts. I was so proud of him.
A few years ago, my happiness raced off the chart as I watched my wife, Tara cross the stage to collect her college degree, only hours after being inducted into the national honor society of social workers.
Years earlier, I bounced excitedly and pointed at my mom, as she marched, with dignity down the aisle of a school gymnasium to collect her degree.
My sister, Mimi was called onto stage, presented with a bouquet of flowers, and thanked for directing yet another sold-out show at the local community theatre. She smiled, and I beamed with pride that she was being recognized for being such a fantastic stage director.
As a freshman, my middle son was chosen as a varsity goal-keeper for the high school soccer team. I was so happy for him and proud to have him in my life.
My step-dad stood at the podium, bravely exposing personal experiences of confronting personal bigotries in a way that allowed everyone in the room to see some of their own personal bigotries. I was proud to be his son and to be a part of his life and his family.
Recently, my youngest son was selected to be one of only three jazz guitarists in the whole state for the all-state jazz ensemble. He has worked so hard on music and I’m so proud of the young man he is becoming. So again I got to experience
...the happiest day of my life.
