The Fierce Imagination of Haruki Murakami, by Sam Anderson, The New York Times:
"Concentration is one of the happiest things in my life, " he said. "If you cannot concentrate, you are not so happy. I'm not a fast thinker, but once I am interested in something, I am doing it for many years. I don't get bored. I'm kind of like a big kettle. It takes time to get boiled, but then I'm always hot." He just described, in the most wonderful words, the way a lot of us process things but do not always have the words to explain the experience.
Looking up in passing and then being unable to tear your gaze away from the stars. The feeling you get when you realize your worst fear didn't happen, and is now behind you. Seeing little kids faces when they're out hiking in nature, especially when they get really excited about the animals they're seeing. When you see a best friend after years and its like you were never apart.
When the youngest one in your family randomly messages you "I Love You". When your cat curls up in your lap seeking safety during a thunderstorm. Looking up at the sky for a split second and seeing a shooting star.
The happiest of people aren’t the luckiest, and they usually don’t have the best of everything either. They simply make the most of everything they do have. The reason so many people are unhappyis because they tend to look at what’s missing in their life, instead of what’s present.
Take a stand and flip the switch. Stop wishing you had more. Stop wishing you were somewhere else. Stop wishing you looked like someone else. Love your quirks enough to let them shine. Appreciate your body and use it to it’s full potential. Appreciate the things you have that so many others dream about. Scream it out loud if you must: “I am lucky to be alive! I am happy to be me right now! I have way more than I need and so much to be grateful for! My life isn’t perfect, it’s just pretty darn good!”
At thirty I thought life had passed me by,
translated Beowulf for want of love.
And one night stands in city centre lanes –
they were dark in those days – were wild but bleak.
Sydney Graham in London said, 'you know
I always thought so', kissed me on the cheek.
And I translated Rilke's Loneliness
is like a rain, and week after week after week
strained to unbind myself,
sweated to speak.
Caravaggio “David with the head of Goliath”
At forty I woke up, saw it was day,
found there was love, heard a new beat, heard Beats,
sent airmail solidarity to Saõ
Paulo's poetic-concrete revolution,
knew Glasgow – what? – knew Glasgow new – somehow –
new with me, with John, with cranes, diffusion
of another concrete revolution, not bad,
not good, but new. And new was no illusion:
a spring of words, a sloughing,