As I move through life, I periodically get invited to workshops that have titles like "The Secrets of a Happy Life" or "How to be Happy". Neither of these are actual workshop titles that I know of, but I think you get the idea. There are workshops being held all over the world to teach people how to be happy. I have never gone to one of those workshops, but I do know that they are well attended. People who confidently sell "the secrets to happiness" will never be without income. I am sure that many of these people are well-intentioned and honestly want to help others. Still, whenever I get invited to these events it makes me feel profoundly sad.
Until recently, I haven't been able to explain why getting invited to a happiness workshop makes me feel just the opposite, or why it dampens my mood to realize just how many people are going to these events that hold no interest for me. I thought maybe some subconscious part of me was jealous of the success of these happiness coaches. I couldn't figure out why the very existence of these classes made me feel depressed. As I usually do, I decided to just let it be and wait for the natural flow of events to allow an answer to arise. Maybe that's my way because I am too lazy to look for the answer, or maybe it's meditative. Either way, I have found that this method works well for me.
Yesterday, the answer came to me as I was sitting outside petting one of our dogs. I was just there, feeling happiness and joy to have this time with my dog, relaxing in the sun. Realizing the joy I felt in those moments made me also realize what bothers me about selling the secrets to happiness. Before I tell you about my realization, some background about this moment is needed.
Last week, my eldest dog, Foxy, got very sick. I should probably say instead that last week we realized she was sick with something more than her arthritis, which has always caused her to have a distinct gait. Foxy is the alpha of our four dogs and the protector of the pack. I observed some warning signs of liver dysfunction and then suddenly she showed signs of severe anemia. Her gums were white and she stopped eating. We took her to the vet, where it was confirmed that her liver was not functioning properly and that she was severely anemic. Each day of the week brought more tidbits of bad news as lab results rolled in. Foxy was diagnosed with immune-mediated hemolytic anemia, a condition in which the body's immune system attacks and breaks down the red blood cells. By Wednesday, Foxy was so weak that she couldn't even stand. She was admitted to the pet hospital for oxygen and a blood transfusion. On Thursday morning, I got a call from the on-duty vet telling me that her red blood cell counts were still low, even after the transfusion. Things did not look good. I found myself sobbing as I drove to the hospital to spend what I thought would be my last minutes with my favorite dog.
We all know when we love a pet that we will likely have to deal with them passing on before us. That knowledge doesn't make it easier when we are faced with the reality of that situation. I felt like my heart was breaking as I drove to the hospital. I fought waves of panic and fell back on my meditative practices to keep myself focused enough to drive. I forced myself to calm so I could send loving energy to Foxy as I drove. When I pulled into the parking lot, I called a friend and asked her for some support. I believed that Foxy was suffering and hanging onto life because of her bond with me. I was preparing myself to go into the hospital and hold her, telling her that it was okay for her to let go.
As I held my dog on the exam room floor, I told her that I loved her. I cried and told her that my tears were those of love and not meant to keep her here. I promised to take care of the rest of the pack. I told Foxy that she could let go. I also told her that it was my duty to do whatever I could to help her heal and ease her pain. I said that I would love her and do my part, and that when she was ready, I would be okay if she let go.
Of course, I recognize that dogs are not people. However, I believe strongly that they deserve that same level of care that I would provide for a human member of my family in a similar situation. I don't value animal life less than human life. A pet that comes to live in my house gets a commitment from me that I will love them and care for them as a member of my family.
I realize that some people will think I'm crazy for talking to a dog, but I don't care. Foxy and I have an understanding. We communicate just by looking at one another. I know when she wants to get a drink, when she wants me to help her up onto the couch, and when she wants to go outside, all by the way she looks at me. So, I have every confidence that she understood me in that hospital room.
Kris arrived and we both just sat on the floor, me with the 54-pound Foxy in my lap. We cried and pet Foxy and told her it was okay to let go. We told her what a good dog she was and how much we loved her. We recounted stories of our times together.
I am not going to pretend that I was okay with the prospect of my dog dying. I was not okay by any means. However, it broke my heart to see her suffering. And even though I told her she could let go, I was not going to stop sending healing energy to her or praying for her. Kris and I left the hospital when visiting time was up and we went to hike Foxy's favorite trail, which is my way of praying. When I need to connect with healing energy, I hike. This practice allows me to feel the connections in the universe and awakens my capacity to send healing energy to others. Kris and I walked the trail and told stories of Foxy. I believed that by doing this, Foxy would feel our connection back in the hospital and, whatever the outcome, she would know that we loved her.
That evening, Foxy was still hanging on. Kris and I took Sebastian to the hospital for what we thought might be his last time seeing her. We arrived to find Foxy walking around! This time, I started crying out of joy. We got to take Foxy on a short walk outside and feed her dinner, which we were happy to see that she ate. What a gift to be able to take another walk with her! Even though we were still unsure of the outcome, we were all just so happy to spend time with her. Something I once took for granted (taking a walk with Foxy) had become a beautiful gift. Every moment with her felt like an unexpected miracle.
To our surprise, the next morning the vet called to tell us we could bring Foxy home! Her red blood cell counts were starting to climb! She came home along with a slew of medications to help her body accept the transfusion and to control her immune response. On the way home, I sat in the backseat of the car, holding Foxy's head in my lap and whispering to her, "I'm so glad you're here."
All of these events led me to the moment of my aforementioned realization, as I was sitting outside in the sun with Foxy in my lap. Earlier in the week, I thought I would never again get to sit outside with my dog. Now, here I was, holding her asleep in my arms, feeling the sun on my face. Pure happiness.
This experience with Foxy made me come face to face with my fear of her passing. It was a horrible experience. In my grief, I thought about others who face this fear everyday in some form. There are people fighting cancer, people living in the midst of war, and people taking care of loved ones who are dying. Thinking about the courage of those people helped me to find my own inner strength. I also thought that, to people dealing with such situations, my loss might seem small. Even knowing that others might find my grief over a dog to be trivial, it still hurt.
Since Foxy has an autoimmune disease and her liver is shrinking, I know that my time with her is limited. That knowledge still makes my stomach drop. However, it has also caused me to grow. The only options available to me in this situation are: 1) to live each day in anxiety about when the end will come or 2) to choose happiness. So I choose happiness. I choose to fully experience the joy of snuggling on the couch, taking her outside to share the Spring together, and watching her eat.
What bothers me about happiness courses is this: I don't believe that finding happiness can be taught to us by someone else. I believe that the trap we fall into is seeking what we already have. We become seekers of happiness instead of finders of happiness. The trap is that we want to believe that if we find the right teacher, if we learn enough, if we make enough money, if we do whatever it is we think we want...then we will turn a corner in our lives and enter a permanent state of bliss. But even enlightened people don't live in a world of bliss. The Dalai Lama, for example, lives in exile, but he is joyful because he finds happiness in the chaos of daily life.
Life happens all around us. We can't control that. But we can choose to find joy even when things are not "perfect". Truly, things will never be perfect. We get beautiful moments of perfection that we can allow to fill us up. Then things become rough, and by allowing ourselves to just feel whatever we feel, we learn. We grow. Sometimes it hurts like hell. But there will always be moments of joy that we can latch onto when we need them the most.
Until recently, I haven't been able to explain why getting invited to a happiness workshop makes me feel just the opposite, or why it dampens my mood to realize just how many people are going to these events that hold no interest for me. I thought maybe some subconscious part of me was jealous of the success of these happiness coaches. I couldn't figure out why the very existence of these classes made me feel depressed. As I usually do, I decided to just let it be and wait for the natural flow of events to allow an answer to arise. Maybe that's my way because I am too lazy to look for the answer, or maybe it's meditative. Either way, I have found that this method works well for me.
Yesterday, the answer came to me as I was sitting outside petting one of our dogs. I was just there, feeling happiness and joy to have this time with my dog, relaxing in the sun. Realizing the joy I felt in those moments made me also realize what bothers me about selling the secrets to happiness. Before I tell you about my realization, some background about this moment is needed.
Last week, my eldest dog, Foxy, got very sick. I should probably say instead that last week we realized she was sick with something more than her arthritis, which has always caused her to have a distinct gait. Foxy is the alpha of our four dogs and the protector of the pack. I observed some warning signs of liver dysfunction and then suddenly she showed signs of severe anemia. Her gums were white and she stopped eating. We took her to the vet, where it was confirmed that her liver was not functioning properly and that she was severely anemic. Each day of the week brought more tidbits of bad news as lab results rolled in. Foxy was diagnosed with immune-mediated hemolytic anemia, a condition in which the body's immune system attacks and breaks down the red blood cells. By Wednesday, Foxy was so weak that she couldn't even stand. She was admitted to the pet hospital for oxygen and a blood transfusion. On Thursday morning, I got a call from the on-duty vet telling me that her red blood cell counts were still low, even after the transfusion. Things did not look good. I found myself sobbing as I drove to the hospital to spend what I thought would be my last minutes with my favorite dog.
We all know when we love a pet that we will likely have to deal with them passing on before us. That knowledge doesn't make it easier when we are faced with the reality of that situation. I felt like my heart was breaking as I drove to the hospital. I fought waves of panic and fell back on my meditative practices to keep myself focused enough to drive. I forced myself to calm so I could send loving energy to Foxy as I drove. When I pulled into the parking lot, I called a friend and asked her for some support. I believed that Foxy was suffering and hanging onto life because of her bond with me. I was preparing myself to go into the hospital and hold her, telling her that it was okay for her to let go.
As I held my dog on the exam room floor, I told her that I loved her. I cried and told her that my tears were those of love and not meant to keep her here. I promised to take care of the rest of the pack. I told Foxy that she could let go. I also told her that it was my duty to do whatever I could to help her heal and ease her pain. I said that I would love her and do my part, and that when she was ready, I would be okay if she let go.
Of course, I recognize that dogs are not people. However, I believe strongly that they deserve that same level of care that I would provide for a human member of my family in a similar situation. I don't value animal life less than human life. A pet that comes to live in my house gets a commitment from me that I will love them and care for them as a member of my family.
I realize that some people will think I'm crazy for talking to a dog, but I don't care. Foxy and I have an understanding. We communicate just by looking at one another. I know when she wants to get a drink, when she wants me to help her up onto the couch, and when she wants to go outside, all by the way she looks at me. So, I have every confidence that she understood me in that hospital room.
Kris arrived and we both just sat on the floor, me with the 54-pound Foxy in my lap. We cried and pet Foxy and told her it was okay to let go. We told her what a good dog she was and how much we loved her. We recounted stories of our times together.
I am not going to pretend that I was okay with the prospect of my dog dying. I was not okay by any means. However, it broke my heart to see her suffering. And even though I told her she could let go, I was not going to stop sending healing energy to her or praying for her. Kris and I left the hospital when visiting time was up and we went to hike Foxy's favorite trail, which is my way of praying. When I need to connect with healing energy, I hike. This practice allows me to feel the connections in the universe and awakens my capacity to send healing energy to others. Kris and I walked the trail and told stories of Foxy. I believed that by doing this, Foxy would feel our connection back in the hospital and, whatever the outcome, she would know that we loved her.
That evening, Foxy was still hanging on. Kris and I took Sebastian to the hospital for what we thought might be his last time seeing her. We arrived to find Foxy walking around! This time, I started crying out of joy. We got to take Foxy on a short walk outside and feed her dinner, which we were happy to see that she ate. What a gift to be able to take another walk with her! Even though we were still unsure of the outcome, we were all just so happy to spend time with her. Something I once took for granted (taking a walk with Foxy) had become a beautiful gift. Every moment with her felt like an unexpected miracle.
To our surprise, the next morning the vet called to tell us we could bring Foxy home! Her red blood cell counts were starting to climb! She came home along with a slew of medications to help her body accept the transfusion and to control her immune response. On the way home, I sat in the backseat of the car, holding Foxy's head in my lap and whispering to her, "I'm so glad you're here."
All of these events led me to the moment of my aforementioned realization, as I was sitting outside in the sun with Foxy in my lap. Earlier in the week, I thought I would never again get to sit outside with my dog. Now, here I was, holding her asleep in my arms, feeling the sun on my face. Pure happiness.
This experience with Foxy made me come face to face with my fear of her passing. It was a horrible experience. In my grief, I thought about others who face this fear everyday in some form. There are people fighting cancer, people living in the midst of war, and people taking care of loved ones who are dying. Thinking about the courage of those people helped me to find my own inner strength. I also thought that, to people dealing with such situations, my loss might seem small. Even knowing that others might find my grief over a dog to be trivial, it still hurt.
Since Foxy has an autoimmune disease and her liver is shrinking, I know that my time with her is limited. That knowledge still makes my stomach drop. However, it has also caused me to grow. The only options available to me in this situation are: 1) to live each day in anxiety about when the end will come or 2) to choose happiness. So I choose happiness. I choose to fully experience the joy of snuggling on the couch, taking her outside to share the Spring together, and watching her eat.
What bothers me about happiness courses is this: I don't believe that finding happiness can be taught to us by someone else. I believe that the trap we fall into is seeking what we already have. We become seekers of happiness instead of finders of happiness. The trap is that we want to believe that if we find the right teacher, if we learn enough, if we make enough money, if we do whatever it is we think we want...then we will turn a corner in our lives and enter a permanent state of bliss. But even enlightened people don't live in a world of bliss. The Dalai Lama, for example, lives in exile, but he is joyful because he finds happiness in the chaos of daily life.
Life happens all around us. We can't control that. But we can choose to find joy even when things are not "perfect". Truly, things will never be perfect. We get beautiful moments of perfection that we can allow to fill us up. Then things become rough, and by allowing ourselves to just feel whatever we feel, we learn. We grow. Sometimes it hurts like hell. But there will always be moments of joy that we can latch onto when we need them the most.