Why is it that happiness feels so brittle and fragile and tenuous? Yet misery is so dense, inescapable and when you're in the middle of it, it feels unending.
I'm in a situation which I don't remember being in before. I am happy, and I've been happy for so long I am starting to think there is a possibility that the other shoe might not drop. Balance has not been restored. Yes, I've had my knocks lately, but they're relatively small. The bigs things, the things that matter, are weirdly consistent, in a good way.
Today I was sitting in the sun on side of the trail with Oscar during the dog sled race here at Stardog Kennels. We were waiting for a dog sled team to pass by so I could get some photos. The birds were chirping, Ozzie was playing in the snow, squirrels were darting around, and I had a strange feeling. A happy feeling. Not the happy that comes with a helping of pressure, not a temporary glee, not joy or delight, it was more solid, more tangible. I guess you might call it contentment.
I also realized something. The chirping birds and sunshine were not making me happy, rather they were like coins being added to a bank. Each coin makes me stronger. Each coin makes me weather the bad stuff better. Each coin makes me view everyone else with more affection.
I think I may be getting rich.