Although French poet and essayist Charles Baudelaire was a bit of a man-whore and died of syphilis at the age of 46 (my current year), I am impressed with this quote, circa 18-something: "A multitude of small delights constitutes happiness."
Because I agree with the statement. Because I appreciate its simplicity.
Look: Short of winning PowerBall, I am never going to be fabulously wealthy and have the financial wherewithal to order scads of fresh flowers daily (i.e. Sir Elton John). I am not going to employ a live-in domestic helper (no space for her in the house; no space for her in the banking account), which means all my life I will battle the dusting ritual (detested), the toilet scrubbing routine (ick), the daily vaccuming (moderately soothing). And then consider the countless dishwasher loadings and unloadings, the endless trips to the grocery, the cleaning of the refrigerator, the cooking of the food, the cleaning of the stovetop, the constantCONstantCONSTANT housekeeping involved in living and breathing and eating and bathing.
But I can and will and MUST find happiness in a multitude of small delights: fresh sheets on the bed, a steaming cup of morning coffee, the metronomic heartbeat of ticking clocks in an otherwise silent household.
You know what little experiences bring you happiness: a sharpened pencil (J.B.), breakfast at midnight (B.B.), falling leaves (C.W.), old phones (J.J.S.), Dunkin Donut coffee (K.M.D.), the sound of children laughing (J.M.-H.)
You know, the little things that help us get through the big things.
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