I thought about this alot yesterday, in an attempt to be at peace with that state, that state of not being happy. I want it to be OK. It should be. Why do I think I deserve endless happiness? After all, it isn’t the only way to be. Is it? I don’t really know what happiness is, anyway. Sara Maitland writes of a fierce joy at seeing a hen harrier. I know that feeling. I have felt the same on seeing foxes. Three no four times, I have seen them and the sight caught me up, delivered me to a space of thrill and beyondness. The trembling wildness of them that found mine. The wildness that we have so forgotten. I was blue yesterday, pushed down by the clouds that never lifted. I couldn’t raise myself up, produce, make, write or feel anything. All was grey. But it’s OK. That is living too. That just being existence. And I am all too aware that if I was hungry, cold, living in a war zone, lost, ill or dying, I would think only of being those things, of saving myself. And I am shamed. Always. So let the not happy be happy enough.
