Plenty of people miss their share of happiness, not because they never found it, but because they didn't stop to enjoy it.
She had a good, rich life. Full of treasures. She was busy, always running, hands tethered to little creatures, fingers dancing deftly across so many buttons. She checked her watch often, too often, and time was cruel and callous, beating on, escaping them all. Summer was fading, the air was growing heavy and crisp, suddenly boots were okay to wear.
She had one day, this really wonderful day with her family. They sat on a picnic blanket on a vast green lawn in the center of her city. The sky was kind and complicated, mottled with cryptic clouds. She laid there with the her littlest, tickling her cheeks, plumbing the depths of brilliant blue eyes. Yards away, the big girls and their daddy climbed rocks.
She had a thought.
I am happy.
She had the thought because she stopped long enough to have it. It was a simple thought sprung from twisted and triumphant depths, hard-earned. She laid there, feeling the fuzz on a little happy head, welcoming the whispering breeze, the hints of evening and fall. Time passed, but she never once checked that watch. It stayed hidden under a sleeve, hands ticking, beckoning but being blissfully ignored.
How often do you stop? Really stop? Does it scare you that by going and going you might actually miss the happiness that you have?