This afternoon I went to a yoga class at a place called Cuatro Vientos or four winds. The large double gazebo with many windows and thatched with palm leaves sits at the back of a leggy tropical garden of cacti and palm trees. Palms signal a kind of happiness to a Northerner—‘time off’, ‘relax’, ‘breezy’…to the local they’re of course as everyday as a pine or poplar. Every time I lifted my head toward the sky, the verdure and dappling sunlight signalled I was somewhere good. There are fruit trees here, too. Every morning I find a few guavas at the end of my stone patio, fresh and fragrant, my favourite perfume of the moment, and I bring them to the horse that lives on this property. He eats the small green fruits in one bite then licks my hand and lets me scratch behind his ears. This must be happiness, too.
When I set off from Calgary to the tip of the Baja Peninsula, a search for ‘happiness’ wasn’t an explicit desire, because to me happiness was almost always experienced as a contrast to discomfort. What I mean is that it was never at work where the jaws of modern life gnawed painfully at my soul, nor in whatever came after the day was done—was it after after that? Maybe happiness was available on the weekend while walking in a park. I was unemployed all through the autumn of 2023 and every day I’d walk to the park with Stevie to sit on a bench and witness the leaves turning, and if I was lucky, people watch. This was a truly disappointing period for people watching because I rarely saw anyone interacting or playing or picnicking—instead, neighbours came outside to a beautiful park to disappear inside their phones. Were they happy? Was I? It was so hard to be present because I still felt an incredible resonant pressure pulsing through my brain, the droning beat of the modern world, corporate work, and a failed romantic relationship that had recently ended—was there ever a time in life where one was simply happy?
The summer of 1995 I had happiness for a flash. It was summer camp first love, brown eyes, simple smile, country hits, the touch of your hand, foosball, immortal love declarations in teenage scrawl, pre-smart phone innocence through long calls and letters, Strawberry Wine, road trips, sleeping in the barn loft, nights in the camper boy talking, old cars, and brand new never-before-felt feelings.
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On the stretch of highway 22 south of Calgary through towns called Longview and Lundbreck, past places like Upper Bob Creek, is one of the most beautiful stretches of open land in the world. It rolls and waves, soft with prairie grasses, the Rockies gently appearing on the Western horizon. Stevie and I conquered this empty ribbon of highway into the endless skyway on our first leg of the trip. The sun, so far far away, formed an orange smile above the cowboy hills and promised to take the longest way home. I was not anxious in this stretch, not at all. Ahead would be obstacles and fear and dread and tears, but for a few hours, the sun’s half moon and me were okay.