Happiness Is …. (another) collective list

This Happiness List was created on the evening of April 19, at the very end of a workshop held at Buffalo Street Books. We spent most of our time writing poems and prose, using the Paint Chip Poetry Game as our inspiration. But then, in the last five minutes, we shared our happiness with one another.


Happiness is the scent of garlic as it sautées . . . mingling with rosemary, cherry tomatoes, and salt

Happiness is finding that sock that got lost in the wash last week

Happiness is having just enough coffee beans to make a pot of coffee on Sunday morning

Happiness is remembering how violets used to smell and then discovering them growing in my garden

Happiness is when my mosquito bites stop itching

Happiness is when the buds lengthen and I know the tree I planted for her lived through its first winter

Happiness is a day with a doable but challenging project

Happiness is taking pleasure in my family – my daughter, son, grandson — and feeling grateful for all that I have

Happiness is a life full of cats

Happiness is having good friends, who get me

Happiness is the set of wild dreams that dance along my peripheral vision in the waking light

Happiness is looking at a friend and knowing that they already see what I feel

Happiness is a smile passed from one soul to another

Happiness is the feeling in the air on a warm summer’s day

Happiness is the glow in your eyes when you think no one is watching

Happiness is wandering, exploring, being upside down, having my worldview changed

Happiness is panna cotta

Happiness is all those Amish Romance Novels, read and forgotten

Happiness is brown paper packages tied up in string

Happiness is bourbon

Happiness is all the little ladybug “tents” in my apartment: learning how incredibly delicate and intricate they are, and how to pick them up and how to move them

Happiness is fresh coffee, a soft blanket, and a close friend

Happiness is driving in the rain thinking of baptism

Happiness is waking up with something new to try

Happiness is seeing the eyes of the person you love soften, as they heal

Happiness is my child, breathing, being

Happiness is reading on the porch

Happiness is the sound of green leaves rustling in a warm breeze

Happiness is finding both of my gloves in the pocket when I need them

Happiness is going to the mall to see a live broadcast of a Met opera

Happiness is having a bird study me with great concentration and curiosity

Happiness is blundering into a writing group and finding my place among the others

Happiness is seeing the very book I most want to read now, right there on a bookstore shelf, and hooray, it’s already available in paperback

Happiness is cuddling with a cat guru

Happiness is smiling because it’s good to be alive

Happiness is using a pen until all the ink is gone


 
Thank you to all these wonderful contributors:

Alex
Ashley
Barb
David
Janis
Jim
Kietra
Krishna
Lisa
Margaret
Marty
Nancy
Rob
Sandy
Susan I
Susan K
Susie
Zee

Happiness Is . . . . (a collective list)

This Happiness List was created during the week of April 9, in 4 different writing groups led by Zee Zahava (in the Tompkins County Public Library, The CAP ArtSpace, and in the Painted Parrot Writing Studio). Perhaps YOU will be inspired to write your own list of statements declaring what makes YOU happy!



Happiness is a big muscular hug and sloppy kiss on the cheek, unexpected, as I take out the compost

Happiness is the vibration in my body generated by a heavy purring of a cat on my chest

Happiness is the first swim in the sea in the early summer

Happiness is a room full of people dancing to my daughter’s fiddle playing

Happiness is using my last bit of energy to crest the hill on my bicycle in anticipation of coasting for miles

Happiness is watching my husband “trade hats” with the hat vendor on the street

Happiness is when the last guest leaves with marvelous memories

Happiness is a fully blossoming forsythia, the fragrance of lilacs, the delicacy of wild violets, and the blowsy, lazy beauty of peonies

Happiness is chocolate slowly melting down to the crunch of a surprise almond

Happiness is the front door opening at 5 p.m. as my beloved comes home

Happiness is the color and sweet taste of Cara Cara oranges

Happiness is when I don’t need to set my alarm clock before I go to sleep

Happiness is seeing a perfectly camouflaged squirrel only because it moved before it froze and disappeared again

Happiness is listening to a Schubert Symphony while I drive around the lake

Happiness is the smell of a clean dog

Happiness is the sight of daffodils over my dog, Minnie’s, grave — like she is still with me, saying hello

Happiness is baking a cake, without using a recipe, and it works

Happiness is finding an excellent movie to borrow from the public library

Happiness is taking off my muddy boots after a long walk

Happiness is saying “I love you”

Happiness is opening the mailbox and seeing a fat envelope from my sister

Happiness is seeing my tarragon plants sprouting through the snow that covered their pot

Happiness is having time in the morning to sit in my rocker, drink my coffee, and read a book

Happiness is feeling as though all the words I am looking for are flowing out of my pen

Happiness is getting the email notifying me that the books I requested are waiting for me at the library

Happiness is my closet full of black clothing that I imagine I’ll look stunning in (and yes, I am consumed by my appearance lately)

Happiness is being alone in my apartment, sitting on the love-seat, and talking to a trusted friend

Happiness is helping that friend through a difficult time in her life and knowing that I have done well

Happiness is when I get a surprise hug from someone I have admired and didn’t know they even knew I existed

Happiness is when I create a really delicious meal out of what I find in the fridge and the cupboards

Happiness is when I’m alone in the car and a beautiful orchestral piece comes on the radio and I can sing the parts I love best — at the top of my lungs

Happiness is an early morning email from my mother and all she sends is a string of purple heart emojis

Happiness is when I open the fridge and see so many excellent choices for dinner — all prepared by other people who cook much better than I do

Happiness is reading a murder mystery with just one really good murder in it

Happiness is the smell of fresh bread, and then the bite into a crusty loaf

Happiness is a library that used to be a Woolworths

Happiness is a modest ideal

Happiness is discovering that even burnt morning coffee can taste good

Happiness is wandering around with my camera and taking risks

Happiness is receiving a postcard, or a real letter, in the mailbox (that is otherwise full of bills)

Happiness is finally discovering what my cat was trying to tell me

Happiness is when a person asks me how I’ve been and I say, with a smile, “I’ve been great”

Happiness is having my dog rest his head in my lap

Happiness is having an argument with my lover that is so ridiculous that it ends in laughter

Happiness is a library card

Happiness is wood-stove heat in a snow storm

Happiness is waking up in a tent somewhere wild

Happiness is fresh figs

Happiness is having my love beside me when the day is done

Happiness is listening to other people tell (or read) their stories

Happiness is when you realize you’re almost finished with a job that seems to be endless

Happiness is the first spoonful of Irish Cream ice cream eaten out of the tub

Happiness is watching Cedar Waxwings get tipsy eating fermenting fruit still clinging to winter-bare branches

Happiness is feeling the smoothness of a round stone that I keep in my pocket

Happiness is waking up in a warm bed in a warm house with a roof over my head

Happiness is a group of kind and generous writers, sharing

Happiness is the first aconite blooming yellow on a dull winter hill

Happiness is people on a beach, assisting the release of rescued young seals

Happiness is kids and patience; love and compassion

Happiness is helping another human being on their journey

Happiness is kindness

Happiness is that feeling of relief when a knot in my stomach unties itself

Happiness is hugging a tree

Happiness is a heart-against-heart hug

Happiness is a shared laugh

Happiness is growing a beard

Happiness is the satisfaction of a job well done — self approval and self satisfaction

Happiness is falling into my bed and hearing my goodbye breathing

Happiness is singing with kids when they’re really into it (and grown-ups, too)

Happiness is waking up to breath

Happiness is texting old photographs to my kids, from their 7th grade album, and they both text back “cute”

Happiness is climbing into bed with something to read, after a day of much activity

Happiness is the hot wall of a sauna against my back when it is dank and chilly outside

Happiness is the endless possibilities of a week at the beach and four months to plan, and dream, and smile

Happiness is the sound of laughter from people I love, even if I don’t get the joke

Happiness is reading books to my grandchildren, one child tucked under each arm

Happiness is watching the trapped bird, now released, take flight into the evening sun

Happiness is finding a way to put it out of my mind

Happiness is stretching my legs after a long day of sitting

Happiness is the first whiff of lilacs in the spring

Happiness is being underwater and looking up at the sky

Happiness is sitting in a circle of rhythm and sound, words and harmonies, resonating souls

Happiness is the early bird songs of spring, offering promise of color and warmth to come

Happiness is walking, walking, walking, looking around, never stopping

Happiness is going away somewhere so different and exotic and then coming home

Happiness is looking forward to the next meal

Happiness is reading “Eloise” to a two-year-old and watching her concentrate so hard on the pictures

Happiness is when my favorite character survives

Happiness is when a chickadee visits the bird feeder while I’m filling it

Happiness is realizing that the great book I’m reading is part of a trilogy

Happiness is startling the woodchuck, so I can laugh at her wobbly run

Happiness is a quiet conversation with an old friend — comfortable as an old chair

Happiness is hearing a series of words put together in a fresh way, a phrase that has never before been written or spoken out loud

Happiness is taking a few minutes to be self-indulgent and self-pitying — some moments to wallow in the murky depths of bad memories and victimhood, and a sense of being put-upon — and then I snap out of it

Happiness is hearing a particularly delightful and sparkly laugh that I haven’t heard in a very long time

==


Thanks to all these wonderful contributors:
 
Barb Harrison
Barbara Anger
Barbara Kane Lewis
Christine Stockwell
Ellie Rogers
Edna Brown
Gabrielle Vehar
Heather Boob
Jean Wittman
Jerelynn Smith
Keyturah Moore
Larry Roberts
Leigh Stock
Linda Keeler
Lucy
Martha Frommelt
Marty Blue Waters
Mary Louise Church
Matthew McDonald
Nancy Osborn
Richie Holtz
Rob Sullivan
Ross Haarstad
Sara Robbins
Saskya van Nouhuys
Stacey Murphy
Sue Crowley
Susan Currie
Susan Ikenze
Susan Lesser 
Susanna Drbal
Yvonne Fisher

“I” — a collective poem

This group list-poem was written on Monday, April 9, as part of the “Poetry for the People” workshop that was held at the Tompkins County Public Library. We spent our first five minutes writing individual “I poems,” and then shared 3 statements from each of our lists. Here is a collective list-poem representing the group-consciousness of that particular time and place.

I am nervous
I am holding my pen, what do I do with it?
I am curious
I have a new friend that I share my writing with
I see a new confidence in myself recently
I feel capable of creating friendships more than ever before
I love photography — exploring, experiencing, seeing anew
I want to use my skills to make change happen
I love to “philosophically joust”
I am a mother
I am a writer
I am, I have, I live, I learn
I was not supposed to live
I was supposed to be someone else
I was a false Picasso
I sing with the birds in spring
I remember my mother in April
I am an in-progress type of person
I come from people with little, who valued education
I come from Southern Baptists — showing up every time the doors were open, memorizing the alto line to every single hymn
I come from no back-talking; no disrespect; no breaking curfew; no sex, drugs, alcohol, and very little rock ’n roll
I am embracing this time of transition and not resisting anything
I bought a new sun-hat but I think it might be too big and then it will fly away in the first strong wind
I find that I have to take a nap almost every afternoon, which I never had to do before, but . . .  okay
I sing to hidden folks
I listen to coyote beneath my window
I remember my childhood
I disappear into tangles of the self
I write poetry, poetry writes me
I feel, and push against feeling
I never stop myself from dancing when I want to
I never got a strike when bowling
I never pass up a chance to read about plane crashes on Wikipedia
I like to cook
I don’t always have time to cook
I sometimes put cooking on the back burner




Thank you to all these contributors:

Barbara Harrison, Barbara Kane Lewis, Edna Brown, Keyturah Moore, Larry Roberts, Lucy, Martha Frommelt, Matthew McDonald, Richie Holtz, Ross Haarstad, Susan Ikenze, Zee Zahava

“Odes,” by some members of the Tuesday and Thursday writing circles

On April 3 and 5, during the last few minutes of the Tuesday & Thursday Morning Writing Circles, I gave the suggestion to create an “ode” (of sorts) — simply words of praise to anything that came to mind.

Perhaps you will also be inspired to take 5 minutes and think of something, or someone, to praise. Go right ahead . . . . write it down! Share your “ode” with others if you are moved to do so.


Ode to Many Things, by Barbara Anger

Ode to the space between us.
Ode to the bottle of pills that when I shake it it says “take me, you have a headache.”
Ode to wool socks holding warm toes.
Ode to the holes in my underwear that no one sees.
Ode to the pain I keep trying to ignore.
Ode to the colors sprouting in my backyard.
Ode to the blueberries I picked last summer, the ones I stored in my freezer, the ones I eat each morning, still some left way in the back behind the frozen bread.
Ode to the cracks in the earth that hide secrets.



Ode to the Color Black, by Gabrielle Vehar

Are you wondering if this is possible? Well, of course it is. Black is chic for the house and yard, as my best friend in Cleveland says. Black is slimming. Black is elegant. Black is simple, classic, sexy. Black is what's in my closet. All black. All the time. Black hair bands, barrettes, bracelets, watches, necklaces, rings, earrings, and shoes a go-go. Black is where it's at. Black is mysterious. Black is easy to match. Black, black, black. I cannot get enough. I buy at least one black thing a week. Really. I just want to live and die in black. After all, it's appropriate for both.


Ode to Coffee, by Heather Boob

Rise up — morning —
freshly ground
deep dark brown.
Some like it black
or blond
or in between.
Drip — press — or
percolate.
The song of morning
is the gurgle of
a silver pot on
the stovetop.
My heavy eyelids daydreaming of
a second cup.



Ode To Candy Necklaces, by Heidi deCoo

You live baked onto a string of such gray-white stretchiness that I fear to put you in my mouth. Your pastel rings of . . . what . . . old sugar and newsprint dust? In you go for a long suck. Then spring back out to dry on my sticky fingers.



Ode to My Bicycles, by Linda Keeler

The clunky Royce Union
That carried me slowly around Skaneateles Lake
So many years ago —
You gave me hope and inspiration.
And you, sleek black Fuji
Who wandered with me over hill and dale
Over Rocky Mountains and Swiss Alps.
The Trek, so strong and stable
Whizzed along desert paths, dirt roads, and through the bayous.
We say goodbye, with happy memories that ride with us
As we begin the new season with new bikes.
Lightweight and strong
These Giants will keep us young!



Ode to Joy, by Mary Louise Church

Joy springs forth when the day is sunny and bright
Joy bubbles up when I’m surprised by a hug from a special person I haven't see for months
Joy gushes in and covers everything else when I find I have three unclaimed days this week
Joy simmers while I prepare the delightful dish I thought of and purchased all the ingredients on my way home
Joy breaks into a grin when my youngest great-grandson, Caleb, says, "See me Ganma!"
Joy peacefully rocks me to sleep when I prayerfully count my blessings
Joy seems to be a major part of my life . . .
    And I smile frequently



Ode/Oda, by Nancy Osborn

Wow. I just realized that a piece of music I heard in Barcelona was called "Ode." "Oda" in Spanish. The piece, written and performed on an accordion by a young musician, was one of the most amazing pieces of music I've ever heard in my life. This musician could make sounds emerge from his accordion that I didn't even know an accordion could make, as the fingers of both his right and left hands flew over the buttons. At times the music sounded like a human voice, expressing some deep grief or longing. At other times the music perhaps hinted at Spanish folk music. We were the only non-Spanish people in the audience so we had no idea what the musician was explaining or saying before he started playing. If he was explaining what this ode was about we were ignorant of the meaning. But really, there was no need for words. The music had its own voice and that's all we needed to listen to. 



Ode to a Can Opener, by Rob Sullivan

As a child I knew I had arrived, when our neighbor asked me to look in on her two cats while she was away. Thoughts of ineptitude quickly evaporated as the sharp metal edge of the blue-handled can opener pierced the top of the Mixed Seafood Tasty Treat container.



Ode to Self-Pity, by Stacey Murphy

O self pity,
No one likes to claim to know you,
And certainly too much of you
Becomes cloying like a dessert that contains
Chocolate and peanut butter and caramel and marshmallow.
But just enough of you
In small doses
Numbs a heart for some moments,
Soothes like cool air on a foot reaching out from under hot bedclothes.
Says, “there, there” —
Perhaps turns us inward
Allowing some tears to finally soften
A lump in the throat
A clot of hard dry clay
Back into a heart
That can bend
And open and feel again.



Ode to Silence, by Susan Currie

This is an ode to silence which is really much rarer than it appears.
One can sit quietly and be silent in oneself, but there is always the inevitable creak of the old house settling,
or a car horn far away,
or birds singing their hearts out each spring.
Even in the middle of the darkest night, there is always some distant sound.
The deepest silence I have ever known was during a heavy snowstorm one night in winter.
The whisper of my snowshoes was momentary and when I stopped, there was, for a brief moment
Complete silence.


 
Ode to an Onion, Susan Lesser

The onion, a globular orb, rests without fear on the cutting board
Knowing its destiny, accepting its own sacrifice for my well-being.
As I strip off its papery brown habit the pure white flesh reveals itself.
The knife bears down, splitting the worthy onion into a pair of hemispheres.
Resting on the flat face of the half,
my knife pierces, revealing concentric semi-circles.
I needed this, my worthy vegetable.
Nothing focuses the mind better than
wielding a sharp knife, pushing it into your heart.
O onion!
(Hoping to protect my fingers along the way.)
And knowing dinner is happening.



Ode to Melancholy, by Susanna Drbal

I like the word melancholy,
Perhaps because I like the word
Bittersweet even more.
I am, these days,
dropped into a well of melancholy
whenever activity
stops.
I think I like the word
melancholy
better than feeling it.
Right now it is more
Bitter than sweet.
The days past are now
crystalizing into
“the past”
instead of appearing
as a path of
footsteps in the snow
leading to now.
It’s like the footsteps
ended, a few feet back
and I am standing,
peering backwards.
There are no spaces
between here and there
to fit my feet into
and return. I am surrounded by
an expanse
of undisturbed white.
I am disconnected,
and I am yearning.
I am yearning for a
past that’s gone
and a future
never to be.
And that is bittersweet.


Ode to Hazel, by Yvonne Fisher

She is two. She just visited. She stayed at my house. How we all danced together. How she was waving her arms. How she explained to me that she was going to the Sciencenter. How she pretended that she knew what that was. How she told me after that the Sciencenter had a lot of toys that she played with. How she sat through the short, progressive version of the Haggadah at Passover. How she ate a little bit of everything. How she said after that she wished she was still eating the seder. How we danced to Jesus Christ Superstar on TV. How she sang the songs from Mr. Rogers. How she took my hand coming down the stairs. How she allowed me to catch her at the bottom of the slide in the playground. How she loved the Toddler Room in the library. How she asked “why?” all the time. How she looked up at us and listened deeply when we talked. How she hugged Goldie the dog. Oh how I miss her so much.