if this isn't nice, what is?

maybe she's born with it. maybe it's magic.

These days, I’ve been finding myself making mental notes throughout the day — to remember this, to write this down (which I inevitably forget to do), to dog-ear this page of my life for a rainy day. For all of the unfortunate events that have washed through the world in the past two years, for all of the unfortunate events in my own life, I’ve been feeling a kind of buoyancy lately. Maybe underneath the shimmer is really just relief — relief that I’m no longer waking up to New York Times articles about towers of dead bodies or another of our elders beaten and battered. Maybe it’s the change in environment — the move to Los Angeles, the change of space, of pace. Or, more cynically, maybe I’ve been so overwhelmed with heartbreak that I’ve become numb. Maybe I’ve been thrashing against the undertow for so long, with such futility, that there is no longer any resistance. Maybe I’ve let the waves take me wherever the ocean wants to go, and when I came back up from the dark depths, there was a certain slant of light that showed me freedom — alongside, not place of, world-weary truths.

Regardless of the explanation, I’m finding myself at a distance from “the border of tenderness” — from feeling tender to the touch, handle with care — for the first time in a long time. I’m finding myself noticing the things that are beautiful and good, instead of the things that are painful and unjust — which can be two sides of the same coin. And I’m thinking a lot about Kurt Vonnegut’s graduation speech, which included the appeal:

And I urge you to please notice when you are happy, and exclaim or murmur or think at some point, 'If this isn't nice, I don't know what is.'

That is not to say that it’s always nice. There are still days, too frequent, when I want to lie in bed, stare at the freshly-painted ceiling, maybe cry, if it feels right. But I think I’ve come to an understanding with myself that that might be okay — not least because, on the good days, the feelings of wonder, of gratitude are palpable. They take on a texture they never held before. They turn up in unexpected places. There’s concurrently a sense of amazement and of familiarity when I’m suddenly struck with happiness. To some extent, happiness will always be a mystery to me, but there’s comfort in knowing that I’ve been here before and I’ll be here again, no matter how unreachable this place might feel at times.

Maybe, instead of mystery, determined strictly by an elixir of genetics, the central metaphor for happiness is magic. The song that hits just right. Max Richter pieces that swell with so much fullness that it feels like your heart might burst. A certain shimmer to the summer in New Hampshire, the trail of sunlight across the lake as the sun begins to dip. A chance farmers market in the illusory midday light. The magic is in all these moments — the possibilities they contain, the beauty I’ve known, those feelings of first love, first loss, first being unable to separate love and hate. I have memories of pulling all-nighters, making chocolate rice crispy squares out of Hersey’s and that snap crackle pop cereal at 2 a.m., laughing until we almost pee our pants. I have the morning after, waking up to the first snowfall of the season, hand-in-hand. I have curving up a mountain, top down, lovesick ’90s R&B playing in the background, trying to find constellations in the sky. I have waking up early to that tremulous freeze frame, walking home next to office building lights and wondering who’s on the other side, cold swims and hot showers, wavering on the line between sex and love.

I have everything.

When I’m on an airplane and there’s turbulence, sometimes I think, if I die today, I’d be okay with that. News reports make statements like, “died too soon, died too young.” But, what does that mean? I’ve cradled a hundred heartbreaks, stood witness to all of the seasons, to my parents’ greying, to my own changing shape. I’ve seen wildflowers bloom and wither, contemplated mountainous formations and the erosion of rock by soft waters. When I think about all of this, I remember that my life is full — has been full. I remember that I’ve already lived.

There’s a magic to being alive — or a miracle, some might say — and it’s interlaced throughout every life, come happiness or suffering, meaning or mundanity. You just have to look.

So work hard. Become something [more]. Climb [all] the ladders. Find [your] meaning. Make us all proud. But don’t forget about [the rest of] life. Know that this, just this — no fame, no name, no glory — is more than enough — that this is [really quite] nice.