As unfathomable and illusive as we so often contrive it, happiness is an unconcealed and front-line engagement. There is nothing mystical or out-of-reach about it at all. Anyone who has endured the annoyance of having to look for a spot to settle one’s highball while reading a strengthening British novel knows of what I speak when I say that the advantages of life are by definition remote unless they are within reach. All the mahogany and oak side tables in the world are irrelevant unless they are at hand. I mean to say, I prefer to relish the present without abeyance. To suggest that the good life is only a stretch away or in any wise other than within one’s grasp is to promote an ideal of happiness which is to my mind founded upon deliberate deception; namely, that the blissful future awaits us elsewhere. Hogwash! It is plain that if one lives by that maxim you’ll never get there. Things have to be within reach to be cherished; otherwise well-being is a mere fabrication. As Kurt Vonnegut’s Uncle Alex reputedly enquired, “If this isn’t good, what is?”

I do of course assume that one wishes to be happy in the first place. I suppose there are some who dwell with gusto upon their misfortune or who derive some spooky pleasure from being miserable. For them I have no counsel. Carry on! Indulge yourself in your moans and groans and be resolutely desperate! I however prefer something more closely approaching an idyllic state. It is regrettable that I feel compelled to call such a state idyllic as that implies an element of fiction. In fact I don’t think that contentment is imaginary at all. I acknowledge certainly that many of us including myself have long denied our entitlement to it or at least have argued that its achievement is delayed or extended by one circumstance or another. And while this may have the appearance of being a fair response to sensible limitation, I have lately discovered that protraction of bliss is a spurious construct. We have succeeded to distance our pleasure as though it were a treat for later delectation rather than present enjoyment; and all the while the source of our rapture was right under our nose.

If you are inclined to believe that your happiness awaits you on a distant horizon it therefore follows that everything you do in preparation of that ultimate goal will be nothing more than a stepping stone to its attainment and likely treated with as much respect as anything else beneath your feet. It is likewise probable that if the consummation of jubilation is postponed by laying stone after stone before you in the accomplishment of your journey, you will of necessity end by leaving the work of your life behind, a collection of so much unappreciated junk. This would perhaps be tolerable if the result were worth the effort, but how can the effort be memorialized if it is effectively discarded? If the shelf-life of everything you do or have is predestined then it is assured it will never suffice. One may as well rejoice in the declining value of a new automobile the moment it is driven off the lot! Life is not about amortization! Happiness is not about writing off or writing down. Just the opposite. It is about exuberance, munificence and amplification.

Connecting with the vital and expansive element of life means that you have to be able to feel it and that means it has to be within reach. If on the other hand you have perplexed your life so sufficiently that you have muddled where you stored its treasures then it is both out of sight and out of mind. In this respect austerity is a good thing if for no other reason than that it promotes manageability and invites focus. Remember that our sources of pleasure in life are metaphorical only and it therefore matters not in what material respect or to what extent we express ourselves. What matters is that we have more than a notional link to those expressions. It is demanding too much of the human mind to expect that a satellite beam from a remote source will have the strength of certitude. If we are to be convinced of our happiness, if it is to be palpable, it must be within reach. Removing the blueprint from the illusory to the genuine may mean we must make certain compromises, among them the decision to examine what is before our eyes. The closer the target, the more likely you’ll hit it. And we needn’t concern ourselves that compromise will somehow dilute the inscrutable zest of living. Remarkably life has its own independent vitality, ambition and process of transformation. And while all that business is going on, we may as well delight in what is within reach.

It is I confess a small compliment that I can harp with considerable authority upon the coarse subject of materialism. Bearing in mind the adage “You can’t have money and things” materialism – though closely alligned with what some would label the equally vulgar subject of money – doesn’t even compete favourably with the perceived higher ambition of sound economic planning. And given the ostensible preference for spiritualism over materialism the two topics rather clash in polite conversation. Call me unfashionable or worse redundant but I’m not about to abandon my quondam affection for stuff.

Materialism is unpalatable for two reasons. First, it is bad enough that the dyed-in-the-wool materialist has the tendency to consider material possessions and physical comfort as more important than spiritual values. Second and even more disagreeable however is that the doctrine of materialism postulates nothing exists except matter and its movements and modifications. That reasoning succeeds pretty much in putting the lid on the subject and safely removes all doubt about possible philosophic niceties which might otherwise dilute the force of the proposition.

It is undoubtedly a mark of my heretical beliefs that I am reluctant to jettison them for any purpose other than to preserve my soul from the stake. Not wishing to be either provocative or irreverent I can only observe candidly that I am more than a bit distracted by physical objects. I find it odd that as constant as my affection has been I am unable to pin-point my awakening to materiality. This I suppose may be excused by the remarkably common though often unforeseen blend of spiritualism and materialism, the highly suggestive and emotional nature of things physical which are particularly forceful upon young and impressionable minds. One need only consider the irrepressible influence of fashion upon youth, the close connection between ornament and sexuality. Nonetheless the capacity of that particular sphere of materialism begins to wane relatively shortly and is replaced by even more primary urges, say for shelter. It is then but a tiny leap from apartment and house hunting to interior decoration. Interestingly though the obsession with dwellings and household furnishings – as consuming and financially ruinous as it may sometimes be – is but the introductory level of materialism. Cars and other large mechanical devices run a close second. It isn’t however until one becomes completely distracted by the collection of art that one attains the periphery and distillation of materalism. Art is the final frontier of materialism. It is paradoxical that the substantive “thing” becomes a matter of fanciful “beauty” which is not exactly how one normally characterizes materialism. And yet it betrays the deeper essence of materialism which so compels its shameless adherents.

Before launching a campaign for the defence of one’s belongings I hasten to add to the discussion an important footnote; namely, that when it comes to materialism there is no satisfaction in numbers. Pointedly for the seasoned materialist it is instead a standard of excellence. It is an intriguing quirk of materialism that within the Particular there is the benefit of the General, an insight through the peep hole of the private to the broader ambition of the public. Perhaps this is so because aesthetically pleasing items are illustrative of such universally faultless features as colour, texture, weight, design, depth and density, all characteristics which normally apply to artistic considertions not mere things. It is thus that materialism moves from blunt form to intelligent content. Surrounding one’s self with things of beauty is in itself a laudable motive and can easily be seen as an adjunct to an otherwise productive existence. The peregrination is however threatened when the adjunct becomes less than subordinate, where the subject trumps the substance. We can’t tolerate people who measure themselves by their possessions. It might be even more offensive if we were to measure ourselves by our possessions. The greater existential dread indeed is that we end by doubting our intrinsic worth were we to be estranged from our things. To visualize one’s self as void of material association is not only unimagineable but also frightful, far less appealing for example than the picture of one’s self as a chubby nude child upon a blanket. Apart from those with a penchant for monasticism, most of us have spent a good deal of our lives dedicated to the accumulation of stuff and may even admit to a certain pride in it (though certainly not a reverence). If we have honed the skill sufficiently to qualify its collection as artistic then we at least stand a chance of parrying the sword of scorn. The trick is to prevent being distracted by materialism. This requires a fine balance of appetite and polish, the visceral and the cerebral, instinct and intellect. And, as I have suggested, keep the numbers small. There is no imperative to own the world to sense its joy. The mere hint of salt is gratifying enough.

It never fails! Whenever I respond spontaneously to my impulses, initial regret inevitably ensues! I suppose it shouldn’t surprise me. After all – quite apart from living recklessly – acting without thinking is not what you’d normally call especially clever and as a result one should reckon a boomerang. Nonetheless I sometimes act upon sudden inclination. If one prefers to fashion one’s self other than a complete automaton, it likely palliates that psychosis to act with a random pulse of electric energy. Besides it is rather a misnomer to suggest that acting extempore is entirely without premeditation or external stimulus. My experience is in fact quite the opposite; namely, my so-called uninhibited behaviour is usually the logical progression of prior signs. Indeed the urge to do whatever is made all the stronger by the force of antecedents. For example, if I am lucky enough to have had a particularly good few days or hours – you know, when everything extraordinarily goes the right way for a change – it makes sense to do something special to live it up. Admittedly the deduction is at times out of proportion to the intoxicating urge but that is where spontaneity earns its colours. There has to be an element of the preposterous to what one does if it is to qualify as off-the-cuff and fanciful and maybe even deliciously tempting!

Some people regard spontaneity as strengthening. Far be it from me to assume captaincy in such matters. When it comes to behaving suddenly and without forethought, I am the last person to parade that banner! Committed as I am to the advantage of sticking with what knows to be satisfactory, I could for example happily do the same thing over and over again – eat the same food, wear the same type of clothes, drive the same car, holiday in the same place – day after day, month after month and year after year and never tire of it. At least I think I could. But oddly something now and then happens to disrupt the predictable flow. Suddenly I am possessed of an irresistible notion to do something outlandish. I rationalize these whimsical desires as the percolation of subliminal thoughts. It’s not as though I amazingly manufacture the choreography of uncharacteristic conduct. Rather it is the germination of an idea which has been dormant. To the even-minded candidate these rare outbursts are the recognizable product of well-nurtured caprice. In spite of the virtual military drill practised by conscientious people, there is quite possibly purring in the background like a television ad the thought of doing something off-beat. It’s almost a question of balance if nothing else.

Spontaneity does not exist in a vacuum. Assuming the scheme involves the companionship of at least one other, the embryonic idea has to be sold to one’s accomplice. This is not always easy. The first hurdle is to convince the co-conspirator that you haven’t taken leave of your senses. You may even encounter unforgiving resistance if austerity and other economic considerations come into play, all part of that stark asceticism which is the enemy of instinct. And then there is the need to surmount the existing agenda; inevitably something has to be set aside or at least rearranged. Indeed by the time you work through the details of accommodation you might wonder if the proposal is worth the effort and you may begin to regret having mentioned it at all! But preservation of one’s dignity demands you see it through. In time you’ll likely convince yourself of the propriety of the affair and to back down will only precipitate self-recrimination and despondency.

It is the happy consequence of spontaneity that it invariably opens the windows of one’s soul to freshness and vigour. Turning life on its head even for a moment promises new perspectives and the reward of distraction and novelty. Spontaneity kindles an appetite for living and engenders a child-like amusement with what we have sadly at times learned to ignore or manipulated for purposes of control without even knowing we’re unwittingly boxing ourselves in.

Regrettably perhaps, the experience of bon vivant, like any other in life, is destined to amortize predictably and it is assured that you’ll soon discover yourself pining for the regiment of your erstwhile style. It is however these striking differences juxtaposed which heighten our appreciation of life. Monotony on any level is nonetheless featureless. In the end I am of the belief that the human condition is best disposed to regularity but the intermittent madness of spontaneity usefully resets the internal clock.

It won’t surprise you to hear that one is less than inclined to revisit whitewater rafting on the heels of a particularly bouncy spill. Likewise one is excusably hesitant to retry a backflip if the consequences of the previous effort were rather awkward. In short we are comprehensibly reluctant to repeat an act after being burned. When however we adopt a general wariness of living, the inclination is less about caution and more about fear and we risk becoming as useless as a gun shy bird dog. Being wary of taking risks is one thing but it is quite another to be afraid of the consequences of error. Becoming panic-stricken and petrified of living goes far beyond timidity.

One has to wonder how we imperceptibly graduate from being a robust individual with an affirmative attitude to living to a retiring dullard nervous about doing anything. Perhaps youth was more about guts than gusto; perhaps we were then better equipped to deal with the complications of life. Maybe we even had the wherewithal or bloody-mindedness to rebound from the frontiers we confronted. Eventually however we begin to rationalize our amortization. We may even be prompted to carry with us an arsenal of defences, like a gun shy woman who carries pepper spray whenever she walks alone. But the truth will out as we face the penetrating question within us: Can I do this?

Likely you’ve heard the quip attributed to one of those brainy chaps like Einstein or Socrates who said that the more he learned, the more he realized how much he didn’t know. I don’t know about you but I take the point. There is additionally some comfort in that philosophy; it at least makes one feel less a Philistine. It also affords consolation for the increasing weight of life’s inexplicable nuances and loggerhead debates. Rather than perceiving a task as merely insurmountable there is authority for attributing to it a level of inscrutability which indeed merits some circumspection and distance.

Making excuses for what amounts to little more than pusillanimity is not however very persuasive in the end. Even if one were to forgive a lack of stamina on the theory that one is by virtue of maturity or experience able to bear the deprivation of mental acuity, the flavour of defeat nonetheless lingers. The simple fact is that we’ve become gun shy. Regrettably it is all too easy to lapse into the doldrums and sluggishly accept the resulting inactivity. Why after all push the envelope so to speak? Surely there has to come a point in life when there is no longer the need to fulfill what is mere obligation? When at last is it both opportune and appropriate to put down the trowel?

This rhetoric is unhappily no more convincing than any other pretext for inadequacy. As long as one is feeling squashed by what we face, there is nothing glamorous about it at all. Redundant doesn’t begin to capture the sentiment!

The solution of course is an illustration of the principle that there is nothing to fear but fear itself. This always struck me as a moderately trite observation until I sorted out that, apart from fear, it was often impossible to isolate a particular source of the threat one felt. Upon examination I have discovered that the discomposing element of a venture is frequently not entirely without foundation; more specifically the culprit is not one’s inability to deal with the issue but rather the discernment which we unintentionally bring to bear upon it. More of that Socratic stuff if you will, the piling on of knowledge to the point of temporarily immobilizing ourselves and detracting from our fathoming the problem. Nonetheless this shouldn’t deter us from pursuing a dissection of the mental offensive we now meet face to face with hostile intent. It is by contrast a small compliment to the blackguard who is too thick to appreciate any refinement of the issue that he is not rendered inoperative by it. We on the other hand, though suffering the current indignity of being gun shy, will with almost plodding patience and analysis see ourselves clear of the conundrum. We may at last dismiss the riddle as a mere brainteaser but it certainly won’t paralyze us with the inertia of indecision. The trophy for such exceptional behaviour is pure inner satisfaction plus the knowledge that we did it!

“If I am inclined to suppose that a mouse has come into being by spontaneous generation out of grey rags and dust, I shall do well to examine those rags very clearly to see how a mouse may have hidden in them, how it may have got there and so on. But if I am convinced that a mouse cannot come into being from these things, then this investigation will perhaps be superfluous.” Ludwig Wittgenstein, Philosphical Investigations We’re all busy. We haven’t time for tiresome inquisitions. It doesn’t however overwork the mental cylinders to acknowledge that our current station in life is pretty much the product of our application to date. Given our deportment we shouldn’t be surprised by our condition in life. It is after all tautological. Indeed we dare not think otherwise. Yet it is almost with stunned recognition that we admit to the very predictable state of our affairs. The concession of this glaring inevitability hardly qualifies as insightful. Did we imagine that our actions had no consequences? Did we suppose that the first principles of logic were somehow lost on our daily lives? Did we presume living unfolded beyond the realm of thought? If one finds the detached precision of deductive reasoning shamefully inappropriate to the poetry of living, I am reminded of the 15th century proverb, “What’s bred in the bone will out in the flesh.” The upshot of our lives is neither a ballad nor a crap shoot. I don’t mean to diminish the wonder of living or to suggest that we are stereotypical, but we might at least acknowledge that the results of our actions and “what’s bred in the bone”, while perhaps not expected, might have been foreseen or even anticipated. Distracted as we are by living in the moment, we react spasmodically to urges and sensibilities without a great deal of farsightedness. It would be a stretch to suggest that during our once carefree youth we had any concern about how things would turn out. The unsettling corollary however is that almost without exception the spreading of our history brutally lays bear an identifiable nexus between what we did and what we have become. If I am correct that there is an element of inevitability about life presumably one needn’t become too intent upon changing its course. Nonetheless I hold it to be equally true that there are crossroads in life and that the path we pursue will ultimately lead to different though plainly unsurprising conclusions. Whether it is calculated reasoning or whimsical passion which drives us one way or another is quite irrelevant; I merely emphasize the connection between the choice and the result. As a life-altering assertion this line of observation has about as much weight as any other “adult” admonition. Competing with the possible legitimacy of such objective evaluation is the swell of emotion which so often accompanies the vitality of youth. Yet whatever stage of life we’re at the powwow is always whether to listen to our instincts or to our head. And frankly I would be hard pressed to promote one over the other. Again the thesis is not how we should live, rather that what we live depends on the selections we make. While this discussion borders on the trite, it is nonetheless remarkable that we so frequently find ourselves alarmed by its constancy. We suddenly awaken to the life-long extrapolations of our actions and blankly gape, “Funny how things happen!” Of course there’s nothing funny about it at all. This is the real unavoidable nature of life; namely, we’ll get what we deserve. Granted, hard medicine for some. Even if one is inclined to accept the course of one’s life with composure it is disquieting to acknowledge the fateful role we’ve played in getting there. If one isn’t happy about things it doesn’t help to sully either the decisions we’ve made or the results they’ve precipitated by condemning ourselves. I can’t believe that there is anyone who is entirely satisfied with their lot in life but even if there were, it peculiarly remains a matter of mystery how the complicated and meticulous affairs of life transpire in spite of their transparent evolution. The details of our live are never an accident though it is alarmingly news to most of us! Apart from the fact that examination discloses one’s convictions, there are several threads which derive from this analysis. Foremost is the rhetorical question whether, given the opportunity, we would alter anything we have previously done. I think not. Let’s be honest, the appetites which once drove us were far too convincing to be trumped by armchair philosophy. Even if the question were directed more to avenues than appetites, it is a distinction without a difference. Another branch of consideration is whether we would have been happier had we made other choices. This is equally theoretical but again I defer to the paramountcy of nature, by which I mean the acceptance of what is. It is a deceit and a fraud upon life to imagine being someone you are not. One’s existence is your own doing and by that virtue not contrived, a sufficient reward I would think. Finally there is the matter of substance; viz., have we accomplished anything worth mentioning? It is ineluctable that upon an examination of where we are, the issue of its merit attends. This however is a misleading enquiry if for no other reason than that it is redundant; it is a subterfuge to the assessment of one’s life. When at last we hit the wall and confront the blunt achievement of our being, whether the light-bulb moment percolates in the middle of the night or while sipping one’s evening restorative, there is naturally nothing to be done about it, like it or not. Reversal for example is entirley out of the question. Regret is a waste of time. Adoption of heroic measures is likewise uncalled for. This isn’t about a display of feigned or exaggerated suffering to obtain sympathy or admiration. One can only resign to the moment and pronounce unflappably, “Funny how things happen!”

One might reasonably note the creeping fashion to malign success, the preoccupation with which is viewed as the unintended cause of irreparable harm to the maturation of young people in particular. The corporate push towards success is seen by many as an artificial objective and one without proven advantage. Success isn’t merely the attainment of a goal; it carries with it the typically suggestive hint of higher social status and – in the plainest of terms – the covert threat of failure. While it may be a stretch I am reminded of the learned observation of Lord Alfred T. Denning, Master of the Rolls, viz., a bastard is a child (a judgement considered at the time to run counter to the law). Viewing success as a bad thing still has the same cachet, somehow contrary to popular thinking. In Denning’s time it took the ingenuity of Parliament to reverse the Common Law; and likewise I suspect it will require what is tantamount to statutory authority to reverse years of tradition in our social perspective.

Before entertaining propositions in favour of or against success it is perhaps useful to ask whether it matters in the first place. I am not convinced that it does. Let’s be honest here, success is as amorphous as beauty. Never mind that both concepts could never be battened down; more importantly one has to ask what bonus would be achieved in being a “winner” of such a contest. Surely it is a hollow victory. Even if one seeks to argue that the avoidance of success is equivalent to closing one’s eyes to reality, it requires little examination to conclude that defining anything as successful is not self-explanatory but rather self-fulfilling – namely, success will be what you say or believe it is, just like beauty.

Nonetheless there persists in society a convenient model of success which we customarily apply to our superficial analysis of others. The standards of success are arbitrary milestones of achievement. It may however be a small compliment to a successful person that he or she has attained such markers of conduct and exposition. Of course one can readily pooh-pooh such liberality by noting for example that people like Angela Hewitt are clearly successful by any standard. Herein lies the rub – the difference between the invaluable rock and the polished gem. Are we not however embarking on the wrong inquiry? Quite aside from any standards which might be imposed by the “common man” I wager that Ms. Hewitt would achieve universal approbation with or without our piddling standards. That is, the cream will rise to the top whatever construct we may engage. There remains the question whether being labeled a success has any bearing whatever upon the likes of Ms. Hewitt who (while no doubt happy to have you purchase her albums) is conceivably quite unmoved by the applause and public adoration; I’m guessing that her satisfaction is more personal than otherwise. So, if the denomination of success is a feckless pronouncement one has to ask whom does it benefit? The quandary is especially disturbing when it is recognized that the bestowal of success is nothing more than an after-the-fact recognition of what already exists and which would undoubtedly have existed without the benefit of the gesture.

Stories unfortunately abound of the graduating student voted “Most Likely to Succeed” who ends by practicing death scenes off the local bridge. Being a success can become an abominable imposition. Left to his or her own devices, the successful person will normally advance with the same avidity and motivation in later life as he or she did so previously; and if not, then it will hardly be the fault of lack of recognition. It is useless to add to the list of psychiatric train wrecks another person who felt needlessly pressured to be or become a success.
If one accepts that the majority of people do not fit the customary mold of success then the further debate arises concerning the possible damage to those people who have by default failed. When precisely will the sense of defeat take hold? What are its ramifications? Is success merely a puerile gimmick that we must learn to outgrow? Does anyone really remember or care who got 95% on the history exam in public school? Is he or she truly a success who pursues the model in spite of subsequent inner turmoil and rejection? Is the mad fear of defeat something we want to teach our children? And if not, when do we tell them the gig is up?

Most of us know that the charmed existence of being a student eventually gives way to the comparatively cruel world of adulthood and private commerce. Certainly there persist some organizations and institutions which measure their chosen inductees by the strength of their report card alone. But I can tell you of many other instances where such arbitrary assessment was not only wrong but also needlessly limiting. The number of times which the gauge of success has proven to be inaccurate can only invite a reconsideration of its merit.

The way we look at people, the way we decide upon whom we love or with whom we work, is far too complicated to pretend that it depends in any realistic sense upon their success. Successful people do what they do with or without our endorsement. And I cannot fathom any reason to burden others with what amounts to an alternative cloak of deficiency. Furthermore anyone who imagines for a minute that luck has nothing to do with it is deceiving themselves. You’re neither a success nor a failure – we are human beings and have only to do what contributes to the happiness of ourselves and others.