Younger people sometimes make fun of their elders for the simple pleasure we find in routine – waiting for the mail, afternoon tea, watching our favorite television show, knitting a sock, dead-heading the roses. Somehow, they think small pleasures are signs of a diminished life. However, there is every reason to believe that these are the constituents of the good life. Maybe this is something we learn in our old age.
You may remember that at the end of Voltaire’s Candide, that satire of the optimistic philosophy that all things are for the best, Candide counsels us that we must all simply “cultivate our own garden.” I have always thought that it was a way of reminding us that the worth of our lives, the joy of our lives, comes from paying attention to the small things that we do every day, the things that truly make up our lives. As I have aged and the distractions of the outside world are more easily kept at bay, I have realized what good advice this is.
My husband and I have been reading Thomas Hardy lately, and at the end of the Mayor of Casterbridge, I was quite taken by a passage which talks about the “ever-after” of Elizabeth Jane, a central character who has suffered much from the ups and downs of life:
Her experience had been of a kind to teach her, rightly or wrongly, that the doubtful honor of a brief transit through a sorry world hardly called for effusiveness, even when the path was suddenly irradiated at some half-way point by daybeams rich as hers. But her strong sense that neither she nor any human being deserved less than was given, did not blind her to the fact that there were others receiving less who had deserved much more. And in being forced to class herself among the fortunate she did not cease to wonder at the persistence of the unforeseen, when the one to whom such unbroken tranquillity had been accorded in the adult stage was she whose youth had seemed to teach that happiness was but the occasional episode in a general drama of pain.
While you might not agree with Hardy that life is a “general drama of pain,” we must all agree that it is no Eden either. Hardy’s “solution” was akin to Voltaire’s:
As the lively and sparkling emotions of her early married life cohered into an equable serenity, the finer movements of her nature found scope in discovering to the narrow-lived ones around her the secret (as she had once learnt of it) of making limited opportunities endurable; which she deemed to consist in the cunning enlargement, by a species of microscopic treatment, of those minute forms of satisfaction that offer themselves to everybody not in positive pain; which, thus handled, have much of the same inspiriting effect upon life as wider interests cursorily embraced.
This talk of the cultivation and appreciation of “minute forms of satisfaction” is brilliant, I think, – and true. I think of the little pleasures in our life – watching “Grantchester,” espresso on Saturday night, a good pasta dinner – what would life be without them? Hardy is skeptical enough to put a caveat in (“to everybody not in positive pain”), but generally he gives us hope.
I wrote some years ago about the wonderful book by Marion Milner, A Life of One’s Own. It was based on a journal this amazing woman kept in an effort to try to ascertain what, really, made her happy:
I could not by direct effort feel love towards someone, or by direct effort make myself happy. What then was entirely under the control of my will? It seemed to me that the only thing that was even potentially so controlled was my attention. I could not control what I saw when I looked in a certain direction, but I could, generally at least, control which direction I should look in.
And mostly, her attention and her joy were on the small moments of life.
When long-married couples are separated by death or disability, they often talk about missing the little things – the glass of wine after dinner, the game of Scrabble on Sunday afternoons, or the standing joke about who was going to wash the dishes.
Small pleasures should not crowd out the more important things in life (and this can begin to happen if we are not careful), but they should be valued for the fact that they often contribute to those more important things – chances to share love, restore our balance, touch base with who we are.
So, when young folks roll their eyes over our rituals and small attentions, just realize that they have a lot to learn. And never neglect or take for granted the simple pleasures of life that last into old age.
When I Come To Be Old 