Happiness: a definition

Recently, I became obsessed with buying a hammock, the kind with its own metal support. It’s easy to find those you can hang between trees, but you need trees sufficiently large and properly spaced to hang one. After several frustrating shopping trips, I found a rope hammock to my liking and a support for it. Unfortunately, one wasn’t made for the other. Thankfully, my housemate is more gifted than I at making do with what one has, and the hammock is now installed on the lower level of the small front garden, in a spot almost tailor made for it.

I like a good rope hammock, the kind that conforms itself to my form and the effects that gravity has on it, suspended, but not so low that my backside touches the ground and not so high that I have to do gymnastics to get myself in it. I like to lay almost still, hands behind my head, thinking of nothing and everything. For some reason, I can’t be anxious about the recent decisions I’ve made about my job, home, future… I look at my feet and am happy that I am still pleased with my tattoos. That’s a good thing because they’re going to be with me for a very long time. To my right, I can still see a sliver of the Bosphorus and between houses and trees, the moon as it rises. The plum tree sometimes drops a fruit. The neighbors’ dog might stop by for a short visit and a pat on the head, disappointed that there’s no game of fetch.

My happiness is marred by one thing. On the slope of the hill below the garden is one of the biggest fig trees I have ever seen. Countless figs are growing large and heavy on its many branches. Due to the steepness of the slope and the height of the tree branches, I will be able to reach very few of them; my definition of frustration.