The Art of Being Happy

I wish I was 5 years old again, holding on to my dad's pinky finger. We'd go across the big main street a block away and visit the amazing, beautiful, peaceful place we simply called, "The Trees."

It was magical. Weeping willows fell low enough to grab on, hold tight and swing - without a care in the world. Weeping ... willow. At 5, why would I bother pondering the name this lovely tree was given? The tree that still holds some of my favorite childhood memories. She couldn't be sad ... she made me so happy.

It was so easy then. That was before my ears knew that mouths could spur loud and hateful words. It was before I knew what hurt was and what pain felt like. I lived and breathed happy. Little did I know the weeping that was occuring and the weeping that would come.

Happiness came with such ease. And even more so, with such acceptance. I didn't fight happy. It was there. We were one. Little girl ... with blue eyes and only innocent tears, dreams yet to be dreamt, long brown hair left untouched, a creative mind only beginning its journey.

I can't be her anymore. Being happy has become an art form. At least right now. It seems unnatural but surely not unwanted. No, I don't spend my days moping around. Life is okay. But, I've hit another brick wall. No, I didn't hit it. I ran, top speed staring straight into it and decided not to stop. Happy is sitting beside me, holding me tightly and I just want to push it away. Give me the weeping. Not the willow.

I didn't think this would be so difficult, but it is. If I'm really honest with myself, which I'd definitely rather not be, I'd know it's not about any one, it's not about any thing, it's me. 100% me.

Sometimes ...

just sometimes ...


I'm really stupid.


But, I don't regret it.


Except that it hurts. A lot.