Slow Happiness

As I look out the window at the sunshine on my garden, I remember the many days that I saw the same view differently—when the glass was streaked with rain, when the ground was hard with frost, and the plants that are budding and growing so beautifully today were nothing but tiny seeds or bare sticks. It all changed so slowly, but it changed so much. And as good as it looks today, I know that there are even better things ahead—the apple blossoms will ripen into apples, the rose stems will bloom with their own unique colours and fill the air with their intoxicating aromas, there will be blueberries and strawberries and maybe this year we’ll finally get some grapes from the grape vine, now that it’s more established. It takes time, establishing. Our blueberry bushes give us a lot more now than they used to, and the apple tree is a little bigger every year. Life is like that, too, isn’t it?

It seems to me that the best, most deliciously happy and wholesome aspects of my life today are the ones that grew slowly, like my garden. I remember the excitement of planting new friendships, but now I look back over years of shared ups and downs and tears and laughter and life with the same people, and I realise that what I have now in my old (maybe let’s say “mature”) friendships is richer than ever. I remember when my wife and I said our vows, only guessing at the challenges and joys that life would bring us, and I realise that our love has grown deeper now than it was on our wedding day. I remember when our children were born, and I realise how much I enjoy the new dimensions of life together as a family now that they are growing into young adults. I remember the places I’ve lived and the churches I’ve been part of, and how slowly relational roots can grow, and yet how happy it is to know and be known as part of a strong, close community. And as I’ve slowly grown in my abilities at work, I’ve also grown in the satisfaction of knowing that my labour can genuinely help others and contribute positively to the world. 

There are times, of course, when the things I plant and water and work for in the garden, and in life, don’t grow like I thought they would. This world is broken, after all, and it shows. Still, it’s clear to me now that the best, deepest, and longest-lasting sources of happiness I have known are the slow-growing kind, the kind that develop little by little over years. I know that there are plenty of ways to find happiness more quickly, in experiences and holidays and attention-grabbing apps and such, but those highs tend to fade away almost as quickly as they come. A thousand notifications of likes online might give an immediate buzz, but they can’t give the comfortable, happy freedom of laughing with an old friend. A quick romance might make a weekend more entertaining, but a committed love can expand the joy of a lifetime. Holidays in exotic places can be marvellous for a week or two, but they’re no substitute for the happiness of coming home to a community where I know I belong, where I am known and valued and have meaningful work to do. 

The strongest, most potent forms of happiness I’ve found on earth are the ones that took their time growing. Could they grow even better in the future, like the plants in my garden? It’s certainly possible, and exciting to think about. In a world that values youth above almost everything and demands instant gratification always, I’m convinced that there are deep kinds of happiness that can only be harvested after years of slow growth. These are worth waiting for, and worth working for. They are worth sacrificing short-term pleasures for. They are worth planting seeds for, even today, and investing time in over seasons and years—just like my garden.