Witchy Wednesday: A Ritual Defining and Manifesting Happiness

 

What does happiness mean to you? What is the operational definition?

Happiness is not being in pain or distress; physical, mental, or emotional. Happiness is not being so afraid that it holds me back from doing or being what makes me happiest.

Up until now, have you believed it was obtainable? Why or why not?

I think moments of happiness have caught me by surprise from time to time. They come out of nowhere, and when they're happening it's a whirlwind of beauty. It's only after when they are gone that I realize just how wonderful those individual moments were. I wish I had paid more attention to them when they were happening, cherished them in the moment, held on tighter to the feelings. Maybe they are so special and memorable because they are so rare. I don't know.

Think of a specific time when you were happy. What did that happiness look like? How did it feel?

I wasn't worrying about anything. I wasn't thinking about something I had to do later. I wasn't worried about the way I looked in that moment. I wasn't in any physical pain. I wasn't trying too hard to be or do or say anything. I could just be. Laughter. There's always laughter, and everything is bright in my memory even in the dark. 

What does the happiest version of you look like? How do they respond to triggers? What do they believe to be true?

The happiest version of me is happy to be me, just as I am. Imperfectly perfect. The happiest version of me is able to accept love and not question its cost or motive. The happiest version of me can offer love without fear of it being misused or used to hurt me later. The happiest version of me smiles more and feels the smiles. The happiest version of me is every shade of green.

Mother's Day Surprise

Mother's Day Surprise by Soosh

Mother's Day is hard on so many levels for me. Maybe it always will be. Maybe time will ease it eventually. I don't know. I just know right now, it's torture.

My mother and I did not have the easiest relationship. I don't know when it started to go left. Maybe it was always that way. I can't recall a time when there wasn't some sort of strain. It always felt like I fell short of what she wanted as a daughter. I know she loved me, but I never didn't feel like I was a disappointment to her. She never once told me she was proud of me. Now there is no time for that to happen.

Now that she has passed, people expect that all of recollections should be rosy with nostalgia. I wish that was the case. There's anger and resentment and disappointment, and a hell of a lot of hurt. There's longing and love and regret too. My family would be angry if I expressed anything other than pure love though, so I am silent. I gloss over the truth for them or outright lie to make them feel better like I always did. To protect their feelings. To protect their memories.

It's not an easy day.