Simply happy

“There’s your thrush,” Amy says softly into the gathering dusk.

My sister and I are taking a post-dinner stroll down a country road. I pause to listen for the ethereal voice emanating from darkening woods. In the stillness that often accompanies twilight’s feathery descent, the sweet hollow trill, like musical prayer whispered through a glass tube, falls over me. With no other reason for it, I feel, at this precise moment—happy.

No matter that I’ve spent the afternoon alternately freezing, then sweating, in a labor of love—digging four-foot-deep holes into rock-stubbled earth as snow flurries fly—for my parents’ patiently awaited deck project. Back-busting work for sure, but I’m earning my seat on the deck.

This is not quite how my parents see it. They’d prefer that we just spend some pleasant hours together, enjoying one another’s company. Mom keeps trying to lure me away for a bite to eat. Dad delays making decisions necessary to the forward movement of the project. It’s tempting to set aside the posthole digger, but decks don’t get done that way.

The following day, as I continue driving different tools into the dirt, my thoughts drift back to our evening ambulation. Amy and I shuffle past each quiet house, this one nestled into the trees, that one perched on its tamed patch of turf. Spring peepers are trilling their froggy mating calls as people flip switches inside homes, stitching patches of golden glow along the flanks of this road.

There’s nothing too amazing about these moments, just our roving occasional chatter, the deepening chill of sunless hours, the soothing rhythm of our steps. Another bird begins its comments on the evening’s arrival. And though I’ve got my bundle of worries and complaints stashed somewhere, right now, I’m happy.

We are meant to have happiness in our lives. And it need not come at great cost or require ample outlays of time or energy. Most often, happiness tags along with simple moments—skipping rocks across water with a beloved child, setting the first seeds into spring soils, sating a hearty appetite after hard physical labor.

I peer into the shadowed tube of earth that will hold one corner of the deck. I’ve taken out rocks and soil and tossed in daily concerns, thoughts and plans, regrets and goals—all sorts of rangy stuff cluttering my mind. Maybe I’ve solved a problem or two in the time it’s taken to excavate this earthen space. Amy’s hard at work nearby, doing the same, laying claim to her place.

A sound of triumph emanates from my sister. I glance over to find her carefully threading a “pooper scooper” into the hole she is working. Fits of laughter rise with the successful lifting of each scoop of loosened materials. Such innovation lightens both the labor and our mood. The heavy post-hole-digger is cast aside in favor of this new deck-hole-digging device.

Later this year, we’ll rest here as the moon rises over the marsh and listen as the thrush ushers in dusk. The stiffness and pain will be faded memories replaced by coyotes calling from across the river. As the stars begin to pierce the inky sky, we’ll recall laughing at one another as we wrestled uncooperative rocks from the ground and tossed our troubles down. And most likely, we’ll remember being happy.