The Pursuit of Happiness

As a culture, we are obsessed with being happy, and it seems that we always have been. It’s right there in the Declaration of Independence, the first line of the second paragraph, dated July 4, 1776: “We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.” Codified like that, you know these people took their happiness seriously. It’s not just a right, it’s an unalienable right.

That doesn’t sound unreasonable. Our journal is built around the idea that adventure brings happiness. But what is happiness? Is it elation? Joy? Mindfulness? The absence of unhappiness? These are not the idle thoughts of an amateur philosopher. Culturally, happiness is presented as a lodestar, like youth or material wealth, and the subtext is that if you don’t have it, there’s something wrong with you. Few are immune.

I certainly am not, and the last couple of years have brought exceptional barriers to happiness. I have felt overwhelmed every single day. Too much internet, too much Covid, feeling powerless in the face of climate change and politics, eroded by the corrosiveness of social media, burdened by the guilt of my typical American consumptive life. Finally, frustrated, I decided to flip the script. Instead of looking for happiness, I would eliminate the clutter. Instead of just admiring the Yvon Chouinard quote—“The more you know, the less you need”—I would live it. I would—it’s okay to laugh—become a minimalist.

Now, minimalism is having a moment, and it has as many definitions as it does adherents. Some minimalists own a specific, small number of things. Some live in tiny houses. For me, the goal has been to eject the material, digital, and cognitive dissonance that stands in the way of a more thoughtful, meaningful, intentional life. Easy, right?

I started by unloading possessions, first by the bag, then by the carload. With help from tidying expert Marie Kondo, Swedish death cleaning (look it up), and the movie Fight Club (“The things you own end up owning you”), I became ruthless. I found motivation in the knowledge that the carbon footprint of an average North American is ten times that of a sub-Saharan African and that the weight of human-made stuff now exceeds the weight of all living creatures. In such context, how many bike jerseys does one person need? (Answer: none, wear a t-shirt.)

I said goodbye to my personal library—surprisingly easy, actually—and hello to my library card. My wardrobe now fits in a duffel. Then I turned to ephemeral stuff: the tens of thousands of photos on hard drives, the hundreds of old stories I wrote, the endless feeds in my RSS reader, the social media accounts. Again, ruthless. My social channels are gone. What remains is the essential.

It’s been a radical process. At times, I have felt naked, raw, insecure, and hungry for distraction. I’ve been bored. I have been acutely aware minimalism is a choice for the privileged, while also aware the excesses of privilege are part of the problem. Fascinatingly, minimalism has worked for me. I feel lighter, unbound, and open. I have more time. I have reclaimed my presence, and in reclaiming my presence, life is richer and more deeply felt.

Last weekend, my wife and I took our paddleboards—yes, we still have paddleboards—down to Dana Point harbor. We put in at Baby Beach, amid dogs, kids, outrigger canoes, and SUP yogis, and we meandered through moored sailboats until we met the breakwater, then we paddled at Sunday morning speed for a mile or so until the open sea. Turning back, we caught an onshore breeze in our faces. Joni was on a SUP and I on a faster prone board, and at one point I stroked ahead to a buoy. Waiting, I closed my eyes, rested my chin on the deck, and let the sensations come. The chill of the water contrasted with the warmth of the sun on my back. Waves outside the breakwater surged and pulled at the depths under me. Wavelets shuffled at the hull and the breeze pushed me ever so gently backward. A rope of kelp brushed my arm, and without looking I could picture its luscious, deep golden color. My ears caught the splash of Joni’s board and sloosh of her paddle and I felt the tiny pull of her wake as she passed me. Eyes still closed, I let the moment sink in. Perhaps we need to stop pursuing happiness, I thought. Perhaps we just need to clear the space and let it come to us.