April 16, 2011

Inspiration for Project Happy Memory

The Shorter Version:

A few months ago, I was reading an article online about retrospective happiness. It explained that many of us experience happiness well after the fact, never realizing in the moment how happy and joyful we are. The article was good, but I don’t remember much beyond that. What I do remember, nearly word for word, are the comments left by random strangers. Inspired by the story, a few took it upon themselves to write briefly about some of their happiest memories. The stories weren’t long, eloquent, wild or shocking. But they were happy. I obsessively refreshed the page, day after day, hoping to find another. Eventually, the stories stopped coming, and I missed them.

But I realize now that the stories don’t stop coming. They exist all around us, in every living body in every room, house, on every block, in every town, in every country, on every continent. It’s just that no one has ever asked.

So, please. I’m asking. And I really hope you’ll say okay. Write to me at projecthappymemory@gmail.com or click “submit” and tell me one of your happiest memories.  An instance that has made you smile or laugh. A time in your life that you thought was miserable but, looking back, was magical. You can be brief or prolific, silly or profound. You can give background details or you can leave them out. You can focus on the minute, the hour, the weekend, the year. Spend a little while thinking (it’ll be fun, I promise) and then just start typing. It doesn’t have to be perfect, you can submit anonymously (or use a pseudonym), and you can do it more than once. 

Please share this website with the people you love. 

Together, I think we can create something beautiful.

Thank you from the very bottom of my heart. 


The Longer Version:

It’s 3AM and I am watching the cars pass by outside. The melodious gliding of wheels across asphalt sounds like the ocean, and I realize I have become sensitized to this particular song. In the same way I have become accustomed to my inhales and exhales, despite the pure miracle of lung capacity. But we need to breathe and travel and we’ve been told not to make a fuss about it.

Tonight, I can’t help it. It’s raining, and the splashes moving through the puddles amplify the lives passing by in front of me. I think about the people inside the cars, who they are, where they are going, and what they are like. As I launch my consciousness closer to their vehicles, I think about everyone who loves them and 
would be jealous if they knew I was only a few feet 
away from their dad, grandmother, best friend, college roommate, or favorite person in the entire world. The same way those I love are spread out far from me and yet living in close proximity to painfully oblivious strangers who know them only by their sneeze during a quiet Sunday mass or a hurried, “Excuse me” on the subway.  

The collective determination of the cars, the fact that they are going somewhere matters to me. It’s late, so they are probably headed home. In my mind, their lives are settled and stable. Their houses are similar to the one I grew up in, and I envision the carrying of a sleeping baby out of the back seat, rummaging for the right key on the dark porch and relief as the scent of home floods their bodies. 

In my mind, these people are inherently good. The kind of people who open their doors on Halloween, count their blessings as they fall asleep, always have extra soap and towels in the linen closet for house guests. The kind of people who, if I ever needed them in the middle of the night, would wake up and talk to me. (I’d do the same for them.)

In reality, I will never meet these people or see their houses or hug them or call them or make them laugh. We’ll never talk or cry in front of each other. I will only ever know them in the instant their car continues down the road behind me, or through the lights that illuminate the elementary school they used to attend, as I stare down at it from my window seat in the sky. 

And I used to be okay with that. Even more, I was content and happy with my passive role in the lives of strangers. So many cultures, classes, and unique individuals share this big world. It is easy to be put off by the magnitude of it all, becoming complacent with self-absorption as I ignore the life that exists beyond my inner circle.

But sometimes my own complacency turns into discontent, and I get attached to strangers I don’t even know. Rumblings of this began in my childhood, when we would take long road trips and inevitably pass up cars we’d been traveling next to for a few miles.

“What’d you do that for?” I would yell at my confused father, “Now we’ll never see those people again!”

“They’ll catch up with us later,” he would promise, and that always helped a little.

When I was a freshman in college, I flew from Boston to Philadelphia and talked to the woman next to me for the duration of our flight. She was a doctor and perhaps since I was pre med at the time, I liked her very much and can recall most of our conversation. But as we touched the ground and the stressful post flight rituals began, she hurried off the plane to meet her husband and didn’t say goodbye. I quickened my step, and caught up with her near baggage claim, watching as she happily greeted a tall man and disappeared onto an elevator with him.

I did what any normal person would do (sarcasm), and began to run. I hoisted my suitcase in front of the sliding elevator door, and breathlessly yelled, “Hey!”

She looked up at me, alarmed, and said hello.

“I, um, just wanted to say that I really enjoyed our chat and…I’m Christina. It was nice to meet you.”

“It was great talking to you, Christina. I’m Joanne.”

We shook hands and as she smiled at me, I moved my suitcase and let the door close, painfully aware that she had neglected to mention her last name. I had to let her go.

And that’s what we do. We let each other go, frequently, and often without even knowing each other in the first place. We rush to catch the bus and then sit silently next to strangers. We line the streets and walk in hoards to baseball games and then sit amongst thousands, but rarely speak to anyone but the people accompanying us. I think about how my dog could never be in the same room as another canine while remaining silent, and I wonder how humans manage to ignore each other so easily.

What’s more, how do we ignore each other knowing that perhaps the person standing silently in the elevator with us might have lived through our current struggle? What if it’s the person having coffee alone at Starbucks that could provide the one pearl of wisdom we need to feel better, or at least possesses the ability to tell a story that would make us smile? Don’t we realize –and if not, when will we realize- the potential in those around us? Someone, somewhere, has insight into your deepest philosophical questions, or at least the life experience to help clarify those questions. Maybe the same things that lead to my insomnia keep the president or my postman up at night, too.

A few months ago, I was reading an article online about retrospective happiness. It explained that many of us experience happiness well after the fact, never realizing in the moment how happy and joyful we are. The article was good, but I don’t remember much beyond that. What I do remember, nearly word for word, are the comments left by random strangers. Inspired by the story, a few took it upon themselves to write briefly, and anonymously, about their happiest moments. The stories weren’t long, eloquent, wild or shocking. But they were happy. I obsessively refreshed the page, day after day, hoping to find another. I craved knowledge of the people behind the memories, wanted to know what they did for a living, where they were from, how they felt about things, and what they believed in. But I had to settle for the versions of their lives I made up in my mind.

I also had to accept that after a few days, the stories would stop coming. Sadly, they did.

But I realize now that the stories don’t stop coming. They exist all around us, in every living body in every room, house, on every block, in every town, in every country, on every continent. It’s just that no one has ever asked.

53 notes
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53 Notes

  1. thekeri reblogged this from christinahahaha and added:
    don’t think you’ve met Christina. Christina (or prax, or praxy, or praxybelle, or some variation thereof) has been...
  2. timelordcompanion reblogged this from projecthappymemory
  3. nivair reblogged this from projecthappymemory
  4. quanny reblogged this from projecthappymemory and added:
    most amazing gift...spreading happiness...making you happy:...
  5. theflavoroflife reblogged this from christinahahaha and added:
    The world that people love is made from little bits of happiness.
  6. misspants reblogged this from christinahahaha and added:
    Christina is awesome. Check out the blog.
  7. christinahahaha reblogged this from projecthappymemory
  8. kambr reblogged this from projecthappymemory and added:
    My friend Praxy just started...new blog, Project Happy Memory, where you can read
  9. projecthappymemory posted this