On Happiness

No, happiness is the uncle you never

knew about, who flies a single-engine plane

onto the grassy landing strip, hitchhikes

into town, and inquires at every door

until he finds you asleep midafternoon

as you so often are during the unmerciful

hours of your despair.

It comes to the monk in his cell.

It comes to the woman sweeping the street

with a birch broom, to the child

whose mother has passed out from drink.

It comes to the lover, to the dog chewing

a sock, to the pusher, to the basketmaker,

and to the clerk stacking cans of carrots

in the night.

                     It even comes to the boulder

in the perpetual shade of pine barrens,

to rain falling on the open sea,

to the wineglass, weary of holding wine.

 That's Jane Kenyon, who was often depressed. Happiness seems to be Uncle Charlie, from "Shadow of a Doubt": the strange man you never knew about, sweeping into town. 

The miraculous thing about happiness is that it visits everyone, even the pusher, even "the wineglass, weary of holding wine." (Kenyon might have been thinking of Emily Dickinson: "Hope is the thing with feathers....that sings the tune without the words....and never stops at all.")

Kenyon, in her burst of loony happiness, even endows a small object with feelings: The happy wineglass was once "weary of holding wine." (We feel we're actually learning more about Kenyon herself--than about the wineglass--here.)

I'm sometimes a little bit suspicious of happiness, but I'm pleased to greet it at the following moments: whenever Ellen Greene has a solo in "Little Shop of Horrors," whenever my son interacts with his stuffed animals, whenever my colleague presents me with an intriguing true-crime scenario.

And that's all for now. Happy Wednesday!