The uncomfortable truth of contentment

Coffee, paws, books, Christmas trees and the people we choose to love.

I recently took a three month business incubator called Serve with career mentor Alison Rice. I find myself not only frequently referring to her body of work, but oftentimes, I hear her language woven throughout my own. It has seeped into my consciousness to the point where I wonder if it was there all along. Recently, in a podcast episode and in her social media content, she’s been using the phrase “a rich little life” – the meaning of which I now regularly contemplate.

Here are Alison’s words:

“What if living in a smaller house made you feel richer because you felt a greater sense of connection to your space and the people in it?

What if earning *enough* money felt more supportive to your nervous system than the perceived safety that will come when you earn the *most* money?

What if our wealth was measured by the amount of time we are able to spend with our loved ones or ourselves vs. the amount of objects, assets and investments we've acquired?

What if "rich" was a feeling we can experience in every moment, not a number in our bank account?”

Her words – that phrase, a little rich life – were hovering over me at 7am on Saturday morning as I felt myself deep in the quiet texture of a rich experience.

In some ways it feels deeply uncomfortable to write about contentment. I’ve always felt compelled to write about the stuff that hurts. The embarrassing, knotty stuff. The things that are hidden or fractured, in order to feel some kind of relief from them. I don’t know if that’s because the decade of my twenties felt that way – messy, fractured and rudderless, or if it’s simply because those topics are more interesting to pour over. Picking up the painful stuff and inspecting it feels like an act of defiance. It feels powerful. It feels, to me, like a reclamation of something that I might otherwise lose, if I don’t lay claim to it somehow.

By contrast, talking about the soft edges of my own happiness feels like a weakness. It feels tepid and smug. Or at least, I worry it will be perceived that way. But in reality, I think it might actually be even more exposing than writing about the stuff that hurts. My husband, Carlo, often remarks to me how much I’ve softened within the four private walls of our relationship, and how beautiful it’s been to witness, largely because he knows how hard that’s been for me to do. So maybe it’s the same with writing. Maybe staking a claim in our own contentment feels like a challenge to the gods that oversee our happiness. Writing about it feels like shaking a tree and hoping nothing falls out. It feels like daring the heavens to a duel.

If that’s the case, then I guess I’m bringing my duelling pistol and my sword to this piece of writing.

…Back to my rich little morning.

I wake at 6.30am (to no alarm), grind some coffee beans, brew a pot and return to bed with two warm mugs and our fat cat Africa del Carmen plodding dutifully behind me. Wrapped in my soft bamboo cotton dressing gown I begin reading Helen Garner’s latest work of non-fiction, The Season, which arrived on my kindle the previous night on account of having sensibly pre-ordered it. I didn’t even read a blurb, trusting I would want one of my favourite author’s observations as soon as possible, no matter the topic. Reading her always feels like watching someone effortlessly thread cotton through the tiny opening at the end of a sewing needle.

Our cat has cocooned herself between sleeping Carlo and me, and begun purring. The morning light has just started to announce itself. I have one leg bent to 90 degrees to make physical contact with Carlo’s hip. Africa has one paw extended onto Carlo’s chest. Carlo’s hand is resting on my belly (and on his 36-week old son, who is kicking). I fit perfectly into this triangle of need we have created for one another. But it’s a need that doesn’t feel clawing or cloying. In this moment, it feels as though his hand, her paw, my son’s tiny little kicking feet– those gentle, unassuming bids for connection– are the only things I'll ever need in this life.

I know that when Carlo wakes up, we’re going to go Christmas tree shopping at Mercado Medellin, then we’ll find some delicious Mexican food to eat. Once we’re fat and happy, we’ll spend the afternoon decorating the tree, writing, reading and listening to music in our apartment that will smell of pine needles.

I realise that this is my rich little life. It’s everything and it’s nothing. It’s quiet and it’s soft. It’s meaningful not because of anything we have, other than each other.

I know as well as the next person that life doesn’t always feel this way. Sometimes it feels contracted, hard and relentless. It can feel disregulated, lonely and unfair. So if you’re experiencing richness, I suggest you try to notice it. Bottle it. Store it up for a colder season, because those are surely coming again, without fail. That’s life.

But for now, cherish the hell out of it. Even if it’s just the smell of pine needles or a soft paw.