Radio Shangri-La_ What I Learned in Bhutan, the Happiest Kingdom on Earth - Lisa Napoli [3]
You could feel the more skeptical of the class participants sigh. They wanted a different formula for happiness than that, the equivalent of a diet pill for the spirit. A “do this, do that, don’t do this” list of action points, where they could just fill in the blanks and come out on the other end in a matter of weeks, angst-free—blissful. But what Johnny said resonated with me, immediately. An image of my UPS man popped into my mind’s eye, one of the few consistent characters in my life; each day, he delivered packages to both my apartment building and the office complex just across the street that housed my employer, a public radio show. Even though our exchanges rarely amounted to anything more than pleasantries and chatter about the weather, his kindly presence was often one of the day’s highlights. Especially when I was working the graveyard shift and trying to adjust to sleeping during the day, he was often the most pleasant human interaction I’d experience.
People wouldn’t be all I’d consider for my three good things. Since I’d moved to Los Angeles, no matter how uneventful or difficult the day had been, I’d marveled at the dance of light at sunset from my apartment on the eighteenth floor. That would undoubtedly make it onto my lists.
One of the more optimistic in our group asked, “What if you have more than three good things?”
“Lucky you!” said Johnny, laughing. “Well, write them all down. But try to pick the top three. Over time, you’ll start to see which things make you happiest. It probably isn’t what you think.”
That night, I couldn’t wait to go home and go to bed with my notebook.
THREE GOOD THINGS
Chris the sound engineer saying he was looking forward to working with me again
My friend Michael, who I never get to see because of work schedules and L.A. geography, taking me to a pre-birthday lunch
Happiness class
Throughout the next few days, I found myself taking mental notes of the interactions and experiences that might make my written list each night. There were many bedtimes when I had to search for the good things, when the three items of note might simply be my daily swim, the Goodyear blimp gliding by my building on its way to nearby Dodger Stadium, and the taste of a pork chop I’d fried up.
Food items, the glow of the magnificent Southern California “golden hour,” and quick, often silent exchanges with strangers frequently made my lists. So did shared meals, especially shared lunches, which I got to have only when I worked those overnight hours. Writing down that the food and the friend I’d enjoyed it with were great countered all that wasn’t about having to get up and go to work at one in the morning as often as I did.
And, of course, this was the point. Something good actually happened, even on the crummiest, hardest days. And those good things, the simplest things, were the most nourishing.
The ritual of this nightly exercise worked like a gym for the brain; over time, the lists started to strengthen me, to reverse my march of distress. I began to reframe the way I’d been thinking about life the past few long, heavy years, excavating the positive developments that had come out of it: How, after a painful end to an engagement when I was thirty-seven, I’d learned to swim, and now made the activity an essential part of every day. How, during a long period of unemployment, I’d taught myself to make soufflés, so I could continue hosting friends for dinner while not breaking my very tight budget.
Most important, I was learning to slow down, to sit with myself and the uncertainties of the future. To enjoy not knowing what