Happier at Home Page 22

  It made me so happy to think about this moment! My friend transformed a miserable taxpaying visit to the post office into a moment of happiness—not just for herself, but for the strangers in line with her. And for me, too.

  Perhaps part of the attraction of random acts of kindness is that randomness helps obscure your association with the kind act; some people believe that getting “credit” for a good deed somehow minimizes its worth, and along the same lines, some people argue that no altruistic act can be truly selfless, because performing a good act itself brings the exquisite pleasure of doing good.

  My view: Yes, it does, and all the better! One of the best ways to make myself happy is to make other people happy (again, the Second Splendid Truth, Part A), and surely this is one of the most beneficent aspects of human nature. As Montaigne observed, “These testimonies of a good conscience are pleasant; and such a natural pleasure is very beneficial to us; it is the only payment that can never fail.”

  I tried to identify ways to do more nonrandom acts of kindness, and to make people happier in my presence, on a very small scale. First of all, I aimed to do a better job with simple politeness (the lowest level of kindness, but nevertheless important). All too often, I rushed around, so preoccupied with my own thoughts that I didn’t even see the tourists peering at a map or the mother struggling with a stroller, so I made more effort to notice when other people needed a hand. Although I don’t litter myself, it never occurred to me to do anything about other people’s litter. One afternoon, though, I was in the subway, where an empty plastic water bottle was rolling around to the great annoyance of everyone in the car. The bottle rolled back and forth, back and forth, and I thought, “Someone should pick that up.” Then I thought, “Someone like me! Why shouldn’t I be the one to pick it up?” So I did. My daily swing through the neighborhood brought me into brief contact with a wide number of people, many of whom I saw week after week, but instead of acknowledging this history, my habit was to behave as though I was visiting this drugstore or newsstand for the first time. As a nonrandom act of kindness, I made the effort to smile and say “Hello!” to familiar strangers.

  These steps seemed so paltry; nevertheless, I had to admit to myself, they meant a real change in my behavior.

  But I wanted to ask more of myself. I have a very reserved nature, and it would be prohibitively challenging for me to perform acts of kindness that required much interaction with strangers, such as handing out those stamps. I wish I were more open and outgoing, but I’m not. What could I do within the confines of my own nature?

  I decided to make a much bigger effort to bring people together—such as inviting newcomers to join my various reading and writing groups—and in particular, to recommend people for work. In such a tough economic environment, people needed all the help they could get. During the course of my day, I came into contact with many people who ran their own businesses: video makers, Web designers, writers and editors, virtual assistants, graphic designers, trainers at my gym, artists, literary agents, and social media consultants. I’d always made recommendations, but now I looked for more opportunities to suggest the work of people I respected, and, if appropriate, immediately to send a follow-up email with contact information. For instance, whenever I could, I touted the work of Manhattan Home Networks’s Charles Stanton, the computer specialist to whom I am eternally grateful for his unfailing ability to resolve the IT difficulties to which a self-employed tech-impaired knowledge-worker like myself falls prey.

  Along the same lines, because I feel a special sympathy for writers, I used my work online to shine a spotlight on great writing. I linked to someone else’s blog every day from my blog, and I recommended outstanding books as often as I could.

  These weren’t major acts of kindness; they were the minor, nonrandom equivalent of paying a stranger’s toll or putting money in a parking meter. Nevertheless, even minor acts of kindness are worthwhile.

  FIND MY OWN CALCUTTA

  To cultivate a true sense of neighborliness, I recognized, I must extend my attention beyond the environs of my building and my own circle of acquaintances. But how?

  A few years ago, when I set out to “Imitate a spiritual master,” I identified my spiritual master as Saint Thérèse of Lisieux—a perhaps curious choice, given that I’m not Catholic. My fascination with Saint Thérèse was so deep that I’d even developed an interest in the other spiritual masters in the Thérèse chain: sixteenth-century Teresa of Ávila, the great reformer, founder, and mystic; and the contemporary Mother Teresa, who worked tirelessly with the “poorest of the poor” in Calcutta and elsewhere. (As Mother Teresa was careful to point out, she took her name from Saint Thérèse of Lisieux, the Little Flower, not from the commanding Teresa of Ávila.)

  As I read about Mother Teresa, I was particularly struck by a single phrase; when anyone begged to join her work, or asked how to imitate the example of her life, she’d admonished, “Find your own Calcutta.” Meaning: Instead of grabbing onto the mission that she’d made famous, people should find their own causes. Just as she’d experienced a “call within a call” that guided her to a particular kind of work, others should discover what cause moved them to action, and where their skills could be useful.

  Had I found my own Calcutta? No.

  I did volunteer my time, energy, and money to the New York Public Library. I’ve always been drawn to libraries; I love the sense of possibility and industry, the quiet company, and all those books. In college, for instance, whenever I was feeling blue, I’d go up in the stacks of the enormous Sterling Library. I’d pick a floor at random and explore among the crowded, mysterious shelves. That always gave me a feeling of excitement and adventure, of being on the brink of discovering some treasure. Because I love libraries so much, I was thrilled to have the opportunity to help to keep libraries strong.

  Volunteering to help others is the right thing to do, and it also boosts personal happiness; a review of research by the Corporation for National and Community Service shows that those who aid the causes they value tend to be happier and in better health. They show fewer signs of physical and mental aging. And it’s not just that helpful people also tend to be healthier and happier; helping others causes happiness. “Be selfless, if only for selfish reasons,” as one of my happiness paradoxes holds. About one-quarter of Americans volunteer, and of those, a third volunteer for more than a hundred hours each year.

  Also, although the subject of self-esteem has generated a fair amount of controversy over the past few decades, it’s clear that we don’t get healthy self-esteem from constantly telling ourselves how great we are, or even from other people telling us how great we are. We get healthy self-esteem from behaving in ways that we find worthy of our own respect—such as helping other people.

  But while it’s true that helping other people makes us happier, and that people feel a distinct “helper’s high,” it’s also true that when people are unhappy, they often find it tough to help others. If they did, they’d likely feel happier, but unhappy people often feel preoccupied with their own problems and don’t have the emotional reserves to turn outward. By contrast, happy people volunteer more, give away more money, and naturally take an interest in others.

  I’d observed this in myself. As I’d hoped when I started my first happiness project, as my life became happier, I became more eager to find ways to help other people.

  But was the New York Public Library “my Calcutta”? No. To me, Mother Teresa’s admonition to “Find my own Calcutta” directed me to find a cause that demanded my particular attention and abilities. But what? I recalled Mencius’s observation: “The path of duty lies in what is near, and man seeks for it in what is remote.” Right nearby, already in my life, was a cause that moved me with particular force: organ donation.

  Jamie’s hepatitis C meant that his liver was under constant surreptitious attack. We hoped that his liver would last until new treatments emerged, but it might not. So although Jamie is outwardly perfectly
healthy and doesn’t need a liver transplant now, and may never need one, it was certainly a far more foreseeable situation to us than to most people, and I’d developed a deep interest in the issue of organ donation. A few years ago, in fact, I’d become involved with the New York Organ Donor Network, the “OPO” (organ procurement organization) that manages the clinical process of organ donation, coordinates donor matches, and helps donor families here in New York City.

  My time with this organization had taught me a great deal about the challenges of organ donation. The United States has a huge unmet need for organs for transplant, and the NYODN tried in manifold ways to address this issue. One solution: Get more people to sign up as organ donors! (What better nonrandom act of kindness?) Eighty-three percent of New Yorkers support organ donation—in theory. But how to prod them to put their convictions in writing? This step was important: When families confront the issue of whether to donate a person’s organs, it’s very helpful for them to know what that person wanted.

  In New York, 95 percent of those who sign up as organ donors take that step at the Department of Motor Vehicles, when they obtain or renew a driver’s license or identity card; people can also register online. However, of the New Yorkers eligible, only 15 percent have signed up (the national average is 40 percent, and some states have rates as high as 75 percent). Why? Among other things, New York has an eight-year renewal cycle for a driver’s license (good for drivers but bad for organ donation) and a historically uncooperative DMV, and to make matters worse, for a variety of reasons, the current online registry is cumbersome and confusing.

  But just at the time that I began to look for my Calcutta, several promising changes occurred. NYODN had hired a new vice president of marketing and communications, the DMV began to seem more receptive to collaboration, and, significantly, a proposal arose to move administration of the registry from New York’s Department of Health to the New York Alliance for Donation (a group made up of New York’s OPOs and tissue banks). This change would be hugely helpful, because in different hands, the registry could be designed and promoted much more effectively.

  A few years ago, a friend who works with an organization that funds social entrepreneurs mentioned to me, “Whenever I talk to applicants, I ask them to describe their moment of obligation. I’m always interested to hear the answer.”

  “What’s a ‘moment of obligation’?” I asked. I’d never heard that term.

  “It’s the moment when you think—hey, someone should really try to improve the distribution of malaria nets, or teach kids about the theater, or whatever, and you realize, ‘Hey, I’m the one who should do something. Me.’ ”

  When I thought about the new opportunities for the registry, I felt that moment of obligation. This was my Calcutta. This was one area where I—though no doctor or donor expert—could contribute useful knowledge and work. And I had a fervent belief in the importance of the undertaking.

  But I hesitated to throw myself into it. I was no expert in online marketing, state health policy, or organ donation; did I know enough to make suggestions? Shouldn’t people with more expertise drive the process? I already felt overtaxed by my own work; did I have the time and energy to devote to the issue? I so rarely drew on my legal background anymore; was it appropriate for me to make a suggestion about statutory interpretation?

  Well, I thought, true, I was no online marketing expert, but I used tools such as Facebook, Twitter, YouTube, and MailChimp myself. I didn’t know much about Web design, but I knew something. I’d trained as a lawyer. I understood the basic issues related to the registry, and why change was so urgently needed.

  As I pressed ahead, I fought my dangerous, familiar desire to keep it simple by limiting my involvement to tasks within my comfort zone. When I’d started, I’d imagined that I’d contribute by explaining how to set up a sign-up box in MailChimp; the task grew far larger than that! Bigger.

  As I worked to “Find my own Calcutta,” something happened that I hadn’t expected: My interest in the registry sparked Jamie’s interest, and he also became involved. As events unfolded, his engagement proved invaluable, because he has an encyclopedic memory for the people he has met, what interests them, what knowledge they possess, and what skills they might bring to bear. While I’d been thinking about what I might be able to do, Jamie thought bigger, and he identified several outside people with critical special capabilities. Things began to move much faster once these experts became involved.

  On a personal level, it was fun to get the chance to collaborate with Jamie. In the first years of our marriage, we’d both ended up working for FCC Chairman Reed Hundt in Washington, D.C., and we often sat in the same meetings and were cc’d on the same emails. I’d loved getting the chance to get an entirely new perspective on Jamie (such as his quirky work email–writing style, very different from the personal emails he sends to me). Now, we were working together again, in a context that didn’t involve our children, vacation travel arrangements, or home repair.

  What’s more, as Jamie and I got more involved, my mother- and father-in-law also got more involved, and they each made key contributions of their own. They cared a lot about organ donation, too, but they’d never known a way to help.

  As so often happens, the more we learned, the more ignorant I felt. The scope of the undertaking seemed to grow and grow, as people urged, “Launch a campaign to …” “Do a survey to find out whether …” or “You should call …” Also, as more people and more organizations joined the effort, that expansion meant more emails, more meetings, more questions. But did it make me happier to know that I’d done what I could, with whatever capacities I possessed, to promote the cause of organ donation? Absolutely.

  One early evening, I ran into my father-in-law on the corner of our street. New York City is a big place, but sometimes it feels as small as North Platte.

  “Hey!” I called out as I saw him climbing stiffly out of a taxi, with the two bulging black folders that he carries everywhere with him.

  “Where are the girls?”

  “They’re with Jamie. Listen, thanks for making that call!” I said. He’d recently made an important phone call about the donor registry. “Perfect timing. It really made a difference.”

  “I was glad to,” he said. “I get the sense that there might really be some movement. Let me know when there’s something else I can do.”

  “I will!” I answered. Just as I enjoyed getting the chance to work with Jamie, it was fun to work with my in-laws in this way, too, and to have a common interest beyond our personal family concerns. I would never have predicted that this resolution would give me a chance to collaborate with my in-laws.

  CREATE A SECRET PLACE

  Before I’d started my happiness project in September, I’d painstakingly mapped out my resolutions for the year. This month, however, I added a resolution right on the spot, near the end of the month, when I finally managed to put into words an inchoate yearning I’d long felt about my home.

  One overcast April afternoon, I picked up Eliza from school, and we headed to the Whitney Museum for our weekly adventure. As we were leaving the museum, we stopped to admire a piece I’ve always loved, Charles Simonds’s Dwellings. Tucked into an inconspicuous corner of the main stairwell, by a window, stands a tiny, clay-built landscape of a structure on a mountain, a scene evocative of the cliff dwellings of the American Southwest. It looks ancient. It’s small, yet monumental.

  Eliza and I were studying it when I noticed, somehow for the first time, a descriptive placard that explained that the sculpture in front of us was actually just one part of a three-part sculpture of clay, sand, stones, and wood. The other two parts of the piece stood outside the museum: one installed on a second-story windowsill of the store across the street, and the other, lodged under an apartment building’s chimney protector.

  “Oh, wow,” I said to Eliza. “Read this sign. The other two parts of this sculpture are outside the museum. Across the street!”

 
“What? No way.”

  We both peered out the window. “There it is, I see it!” I said, pointing. “I see both of them!”

  “Where?”

  “There, on the windowsill of that building—and up above, under the little roof over that chimney.”

  “Wow,” Eliza breathed. “I see them too. They’re outside! Can they do that? Put a piece of art on the outside?”

  “This is so beautiful,” I said. “And we’ve walked by that building dozens of times. I can’t believe we never knew about this.” We looked for a long time.

  “Can we stop a minute?” Eliza asked when we finally walked out of the museum to see the view from the street. “I want to take a picture.”

  “Sure.”

  She held up her phone and took photos from several angles. “You can’t really get a good sense of it from the photos,” she muttered.

  On the walk home, we couldn’t stop talking about the piece. I hadn’t felt so thrilled by an artwork since I saw the Joseph Cornell exhibit at the Chicago Art Institute.

  For my whole life, I’d wished I could take more pleasure in art. I’d always felt that I was on the brink of appreciating and loving it more, but somehow couldn’t find the right passage through which my interest could flow. I took a drawing class, for instance, because I thought that learning to draw might help, but it didn’t. When I saw a piece of art that I loved, I felt a tremendous desire to … to use it, to transform it myself, to incorporate it into myself, and because I had no way to do this, I ended up feeling somehow thwarted.