What makes a good life? Money makes for a great start according to some. More time would be cool, according to those about to depart this mortal coil. Unsurprisingly there is no definitive answer. leading me to think nobody knows. The search for the best life arguably is the greatest quest man has followed since someone realised a full belly did not always mean hunger has been appeased.
The threats to the good living mission can hide in plain sight. Getting ‘spoused’ is one challenge. Neither male nor female or even same sex promises perpetual happiness - one may leave, some may out of turn, die what then? If the partnership formula provides happiness for both then all is fine. But should one partner just the one put his/her hand on the proverbial winning ticket, their personal, unique version of bliss then there will no good life within the union. The other may come along for the ride but as the record shows, such arrangements never last.
That love is the underlying factor driving happiness, there is no doubt. That flavours of love accompany us through the ages is also not worth denying. When I was in my prime (even before perhaps) I loved, hard and with more than a lil assist from testosterone. As I matured (well, aged) I loved with a bit less selfishness, and gave a bit more - perhaps because I needed more. I believe I was happy. And for the record, love was not as hard.
Still the awareness of not having had a great life was like the presence of that vulture high up in the sky - something’s dead but the smell just hasn’t carried. Anyway life worked for me. The contract between my body and the Almighty (if she still exists), triggered that moment my heart began beating, never stipulated money, partnership or having to wear a silly grin every day of life. It wasn’t, isn’t as great as I’d like, but it flies.
Then grandfathership arrived. I had suspected prior to meeting Dawood that we would bond. Which actually manifested in the weirdest way. He tried to enter the world on my birthday. The wierd part? I had expected it. As it turned out events conspired to cheat me of seeing this young man’s birthday falling on the day as mine. It didn’t but the idea borders happy.
It seems I take this business of securing his happiness seriously, which bemuses. He doesn’t need me and I certainly could get by without him. Indeed my whole life to this point was making sure emotional entanglement was managed. Love ought not to be a runaway train. Yet I look at him asleep in the hammock in front of this keyboard and can understand why he makes my life great. I’ll clarify. You know the cork the vintners put on that very special bottle of wine? He, I think, is like that the cap - on my quota of happiness. Obviously quality of life wasn’t writ in the contract when my heart got started, but I got it anyway.