I’m in my office, lingering on every delightful sip of my black tea, listening to some upbeat news reports for once, feeling pretty optimistic and excited about life, then I hear somebody audibly, scoffing from her cubicle, complaining about a basic task of her job.
Or I’m checking out in a store and the person behind me is mumbling under her breath about the cashier taking too long.
Or I’m stuck in traffic, trying to make the most of the time, and I hear irate honking coming from behind me from impatient drivers.
WHY?
These things happen every day, and if not these exact things, then other things equally as frustrating, but they happen constantly, and everyone has been on Earth long enough now to understand that, so why must people continue to complain about the inevitable rather than learn to accept it?
I mean, I understand it and I’m not saying I haven’t done it. Sometimes it takes no effort at all to slip into cynicism.
As human beings, we’re both naturally wired and historically conditioned to be worker bees. We’re inclined to constantly be looking for problems and trying to fix them. We’re wired to recognize and acknowledge the bad – not the good.
It’s much easier to dwell in the things that aren’t the way we want them to be than appreciate the positive pieces of life.
I used to only be inspired by sadness, writing things in a version of my voice that only I was familiar with, which made me feel more like Sylvia Plath than I ever wanted to be. And when he told me that he hated Sylvia Plath because she glorified depression for young impressionable girls I ripped up the pages and threw them away because I didn’t ever want to be known for that. I found a poem that I wrote when I was probably 15 and it was really good but really dark and I don’t remember even writing it and for a second I questioned if I even did because it was far too hopeless to ever belong to me so I threw it away, choosing to not take ownership of the fabricated dark cloud my words depicted as my life. I bet even Sylvia was happy sometimes too – but nobody would know based on what she left behind.
So now I write about the small things that fill me to the brim with joy that I didn’t used to recognize until I purposely tried to. The feeling of finally taking your sneakers off after climbing a mountain; the feeling of being on top of that same mountain; finding a beer from a rare state for your Beer Cap Map; the first time you heard that song that changed everything – you know the one – the one you listen to when you randomly wake up in the middle of the night craving that feeling. I write about getting an unexpected email late on a Friday afternoon from your college journalism adviser who apparently still cares and wants to make sure you are happy and doing well; or the meditative feeling of trying that new kind of espresso or red wine that surprises you as it gets better and better with each sip; or that sudden feeling that rushes over you when you’re driving home from work on the third Wednesday of the month and that song comes on the radio and the sun is filling the treetops with light, and everything feels so perfect and full of opportunity, for no reason and with no warning.
If I’m leaving anything behind, I want it to be those things. For whoever sees it – even if it’s just my grandchildren, I want to leave behind things that will make them feel optimistic about life.
I want everybody to be happy when it rains, make the most out of the time stuck in traffic, not get so stressed out about a flat tire, or an exam, or their jobs, or the line at the grocery store, or things not working out as planned. I want them – whoever “they” are to not take life too seriously, but also live it to it’s full potential. I don’t think Sylvia Plath did that. And I don’t want to be like her, even though I used to think I did. I would much rather be a Dalai Lama, Nelson Mandela, Gandhi, Anne Frank, Maya Angelou, Toni Morrison, Harper Lee, Angela Davis, Pope Francis, Bernie Sanders or anyone else who inspires people to be full of love and potential. You get so much more out of life that way.
Corin Cook 