Domestic This
Happiness is not the same as joy. (Or is it?) I want to know.
We are talking tonight of how joy rises out of happiness, an extension like wings—or descends, a chandelier from a very high ceiling.
“Isn’t it the difference between the kite and its tail?”
“Or the ship and its sail?”
“Or a single, whorled rose and the soil from which it grew?”
Some of us have wine. Others are stirring coffee with musical spoons. We become easy with our voices and our gestures—everything a possible poem.
“Happiness is the ladder that lifts us to the highest window,” you say, your hand softly cupping my knee beneath the table.
But is joy the window or the looking in?
Everyone agrees I am too persistent with my questions. Someone cuts the cake and refills the water glasses.
But happiness is not the same as bliss. (Or is it?) I want to know.
“Bliss is fleeting by its nature. A shooting star, a—”
“Solar eclipse.”
“Yes, yes, a solar eclipse,” others echo.
“You never hear anyone say, ‘Don’t worry. Be blissful.’ You can only receive bliss, I think, open yourself up to it. Bliss isn’t something you can summon.”
They all concur, suddenly pleased with themselves.
Little bliss, like a wafer placed in the hand. (Is joy the officiant? Happiness the altar?)
“Some years ago, I was driving through Ohio,” I say. “There was a field, orange and gold with late November light, and at least fifty black steers wandering along the fence line.”
You smile at me as you carry little towers of plates toward the kitchen. You have heard this before.
“Then, it started snowing—an early snow, unexpected. And on the black backs of all the steers, this soft white blanket appeared. It didn’t melt. It only thickened. I had to stop the car so I could watch them, wait for my breath to fill up my chest again.”
“That isn’t bliss you’re talking about,” someone says after a while. “That’s beauty.”
“I think she’s right. Beauty makes you contemplate, slows you down. Bliss catalyzes. It’s a quickening force.”
And what about happiness? Where does happiness come in?
“Maybe happy people are more likely to see beautiful things?”
Some of us have early mornings tomorrow. Others have dogs that must be let out, children who must be tucked in.
Their headlights sweep the road in succession, and the door is finally closed.
“If you’re coming to bed, will you switch off the lights?”
I cross the cool threshold into our room, stretch out the length of the bed.
“What about that movie you love? The writer who says, At last she could define what happiness was.”
I had forgotten. My lips split in the dark. “Two heads on a pillow. Still—I wonder—the image seems more about contentment than anything else.”
Happiness is not the same as contentment. (Or is it?) I want to know.
She presses her finger over my lips, lowers herself slowly against me. Our bodies unfolding like wings, filling like chambers of golden light.
Joy? Bliss? Beauty? Happiness?
“Please stop talking,” she says.
We become easy with our gestures—old, sweet communion.
“OK,” I say.
Everything a possible poem.