Under the Banyan Tree

Recently I've spent a lot of time thinking about creating happiness. I’ve decided that small moments of joy, much like discovering the premature but SO vibrant Christmas decorations in Home Depot, or, even more fulfilling but not practical if you work during the day and can't lie about needing an exceedingly long lunch, taking a trip to the ocean, can be designed.  So I've listed a few I've integrated into my routine. I call them happy happy life hacks. 1 -- Buy a great brush and treat it well. The rectangular primping tool that you hold proudly in your hand will save your appearance and boost your confidence on occasions ranging from 8 a.m. work meetings to which you arrive flustered at 7:55 to happy hour at the new outdoor bar frequented only by the hippest of Silicon Valley. Because, truly, bad hair can ruin even a great martini moment. Bad hair is real. 2 -- Work out as often as possible. Jog through the neighborhood avoiding trash cans on pick up day

Sometimes -- or often, honestly -- I possess no profound wisdom or witty piece of advice or Motivational Monday thoughts on a Thursday, but I can almost always recognize what brings me joy. And I understand the importance of being happy even for a moment. Last week the iteration of my happiness was a trip to Target. At the time, I thought my life must truly lack meaning if the greatest thing that happens to me in a day is an afternoon Target run, but now, with a little distance from the moment, I assess the situation quite differently. Why can't a visit to a red and white box store whose canine symbol I've always found a bit odd and goofy (as he's supposed to be, probably) be a highlight? If wandering the aisles meditatively -- except for that moment when the screaming little boy in the frozen vegetable aisle reminded me of times I had to abandon my own cart and leave the store with an angry toddler in arms -- somehow brought me joy, why should I disparage the experi

The tea shop looked more like a permanent pop up than an actual establishment. At 8 x 8, half the size of most American living rooms and 1/4 the size of American tea shops, it was easily overlooked by passersby after they had dodged cars and scooters to cross the four lane boulevard to the pedestrian (mostly) street that housed small boutiques -- predominately beauty or bon marche clothing -- and led to the entrance of Feng Chia University. The block catered to students:  four feet from the shop, directly on the corner, a thin, thirty-something man stocked a sushi cart each afternoon after classes adjourned, and ten feet down, eggs and Taiwanese pancakes were cooked for breakfast by a cheery, diminutive matriarch in a green apron. I don't remember how I found the shop -- accident, probably -- or how I chose the flavor I would end up drinking nearly every day: pomegranate. The fruit was far from my favorite at home, I actually hadn't eaten an entire one since Michelle Bordenav

Today in the mirror, I saw my father’s face. Dad had blue eyes while mine are green, but still he appeared in my reflection at 9 am to return my gaze. I’ve always thought I looked more like my mother despite being a proud Swede like Dad, but this morning I couldn’t dismiss the similarities in our faces while his image melted into mine like a Dali apparition that had sprung from my subconscious. There I was in the locker room, freshly showered and half naked in front of the mirror, my gym bag, and a hair dryer used by countless other women trying to stay fit or happy, and there he was -- sort of -- c learly attempting to share something. This had never happened to me. It was weird. Strange. Cult-like, not me-like (see post #1). I don’t understand why it occurred; I don’t know why most things happen the way they do. I’m not a big believer in destiny or the almighty and am not even an enthusiastic member of the everything-happens-for-a-reason crowd. But I do believe moments like the