I spend a lot of time feeling as though I ought to be doing something else. Something more. Like I’m wasting time, filling my days with folly.
Admittedly, I’m not as productive as I could be. And my days are not full of toil. Have I failed, then? Is this cause enough to feel guilty? Seems so.
Though perhaps there’s another way of looking at it. I have few possessions and nothing in the bank. But if, by sheer force of will and more than a little luck, I can forget about all the other things I should be doing, all the productivity and toil I might yet engage. If for the briefest of moments I can overcome the guilt I feel on account of my shortcomings, it’s long enough to glimpse it.
Happiness.
In the simple things. Sun-dried saltwater on my shoulder. Time enough to talk with the people I love, to see and to admit my mistakes, and to plan for my own improvement. The critical thinking that always leads to a new perspective. The budding suspicion that broken things don’t always require fixing.
Yes, happiness.
Hardly an end in itself, I know. Not when there’s so much work to be done…
