Peaceable Man Files #64: Getting Happy Again

Random musings on my vagabond existence in the Endless Mountains of Pennsylvania and wherever else life takes me.

After nearly two months of grieving following the recent loss of my mother, I can feel the old joy rising within me again like sap in a tree.

It helps that Rachael and I have been spending a lot of time at our mountain house in northeastern Pennsylvania. What better place to get happy again than at your happy place?

Nature is balm for my soul. It always has been that way and will be until the day I die. When the time comes for me to exit this world, put me in a quiet room by an open window with a view of trees and a creek and I will go happily into the next life.

In the meantime, how could I not be happy up here with spring in full bloom? June is a magical time in the mountains with all the birds and wildlife. I sleep with the windows and doors thrown open to the fresh air, and I awake to the swell of birdsong.

This morning when I stepped out onto the deck with my cup of coffee, I spotted a doe feeding on clover in the field with a spotted fawn by its side. A family of barn swallows has taken residence in the nesting box in the meadow. They swoop over the meadow like scraps of paper blowing in the wind.

I see bluebirds and yellow warblers, black-capped chickadees and Eastern towhees, red-winged blackbirds and brown thrashers. A Carolina Wren routinely perches on our rooftop to regale us with its song. Such a small bird, the wren, with such a big voice. An underdog, if ever there was one.

And the hummingbirds! They hover like bumblebees to check me out before heading for the feeders for a drink of nectar. Who needs drones when you can watch a hummingbird in action? They are tiny marvels of efficiency, their little wings beating up to eighty times a second.

And so beautiful. Rachael and I each have our favorites. She likes the iridescent green hummingbird. I favor the ruby-throated one with the bronze wings. But it’s hard to pick with so many gorgeous colors—yellow, orange, electric blue.

It’s a sweet deal we have with the hummingbirds. All we need to do is keep their feeders filled with sugar water, maybe plant some red and purple flowers too, and the hummingbirds will visit us throughout the day.

Nights, too, are magical, with the meadow lit by fireflies, reminding me of enchanted summer nights growing up on our little farm where fireflies would flash in the darkness by the thousands. My siblings and I would stalk the yard catching them in bottles which we would carry with us like our own personal flashing lanterns.

As it was when we were children, so it is when we are old. The child is father to the man. Like sea turtles that return to the beach where they were born, we return again and again to the places that feed our souls and salve our wounds.

A happy place doesn’t even have to be a physical place. It can be simply a comforting memory that we conjure up in our mind to help us sleep. I often fall asleep at night to happy memories of growing up at the old farmhouse.

I can remember every room of that house. I remember where everything was—the pictures on the walls, the appliances on the kitchen counter, the cast iron radiators, the drafty windows in my old bedroom looking out to the backyard.

Although another family now lives in that old farmhouse, I can still go there in my mind whenever I want. I walk it, room by room, taking in the comforting sights and smells. I run my fingers over the rough plaster walls and feel the bubbles. I am a child again, secure in my ancestral home.

This is the power of a happy place. Whether a physical place or a memory, it nourishes us when our souls are depleted. I feel blessed to have grown up in a happy home that continues to nourish me, and also to have this mountain property that reminds me so much of the place where I grew up.

We bloom where we are planted. Even in the darkest hour of grief and loss, a bulb waits. All we need to do is water it.