Richard Reiss

A couple months ago, I started therapy. I lost my cool with one of my adult kids and my wife — the psychologist — suggested for about the 200th time since we’ve been married that I talk to someone other than her. This time I agreed, and I found a therapist.

The therapist asked me why I had come to see him, so I told him about the incident with my son. He then asked what I hoped to get out of our sessions.

I said I’d like to be happy. If I were happier, I might not get angry so easily. Before you offer me a hankie, please don’t think I’m terribly sad. I’m not. However, I’d be lying if I said there weren’t parts of me that wished to experience life differently, more joyfully.

After an hour with the therapist, I discovered that the root of my unhappiness was my father, my mother, the neighborhood bully, bad teachers, worse friends, an inability to express my emotions and the fact that Mary Kennedy said no when I asked her to go to the prom in 1975. Hallelujah, I was cured! Kidding, of course. I’ll be in therapy for the rest of my life.

All of this got me thinking about joy and how we experience it. I was watching a television show about a dystopian future that followed a small family of three: a father, son and daughter. The mother, of course, died horribly in the cataclysmic event that killed 99.9 percent of all humans. (At least she wasn’t eaten by zombies.) The three spunky survivors, despite their situation, could still find joy in the simplest things in life: fresh water, a blueberry bush, an unopened jar of peach preserves and, of course, each other.

Many of us find joy in the things we possess. For example, my wife and I like art. If you were to visit our home, you would find quite a bit of art throughout the house. Art is nice. It’s a physical possession that makes me feel good in the moment, but I’m not sure if it’s enough to negate my inner sadness, my anger and that which has given me a short fuse.

I was riding in the car with my son (the same one). The temperature was in the mid-20s, but the sky was a radiant blue, and the Berkshire hills were covered in shimmering white snow.

Hardly out of character, my son said, “I hate this cold weather. Who moves north to retire?”

I gleefully replied, “I did! I love it here.”

Snow is one of those things that makes me happy. I suspect it brings me back to my childhood: to the sleigh-riding, ice-skating and snowball-fighting days of my youth. Or maybe, like art, it’s just pretty. I love watching the snow fall from the sky. I measure the inches as it falls hour to hour. I breathe it in, my tongue fully extended, catching snowflakes as they fall, filling my lungs with cool refreshing air.

My therapist said I need to practice breathing deliberately. He suggested that I feel the air fill my lungs and allow it to leave my body slowly, like a snail making its way across a thick blade of grass. I followed his suggestion and focused on my breathing. Suddenly, the air became a sweet and soothing fragrance bringing me joy. Was it possible I was less angry, too?

I went back to watching the same apocalyptic TV show. The family triad was hanging tough despite the environmental disaster that might kill them. The father smiles often. It’s warm and inviting, and for a moment I think he is smiling at me, proud of my effort to understand my emotions. His smile brings me joy, and I realize that it’s not just the survivalist dad on television, but my wife, my friends, the guy at the checkout counter at the grocery store, and even my son, all of whom have nice smiles, each one bringing me a little bit of joy.

It’s becoming clear the things that truly bring me joy are not the things I own. They are the things I can feel: a smile, a hug, a crescent moon against a starlit night, a pat on the back, a walk through the woods, the sound of water cascading over a frozen waterfall, a kiss on the cheek from the woman I love, and all those times — because I live in the north — when a bald eagle just happens to fly in my neighborhood.

Is it enough? Will I ever resolve my daddy issues? Will I ever forgive Mary Kennedy? It’s too soon to say. However, my 50-year high school reunion is coming up this fall. If Mary is there, I might just give her a hug.