Happiness IS a Choice…

They say money can not buy you happiness but surely it can buy you contentment? I received another rejection e-mail late yesterday afternoon from another interview for another job I could do with my eyes shut.

I felt so lost last night. I’m either over qualified or under qualified. Between a rock and a hard place. As a consequence I consumed all existing chocolate in the house and now am immersed in the guilt. I didn’t end up on the sofa with a cup of tea, the thought of making a decision between pomegranate; jasmine; hibiscus; peppermint; chamomile (and of course that’s not including good old fashioned English tea) was just too much. I instead retreated into the comforting world of The Duvet with the book I promise is ‘work’.

Hubby came home last night with a beautiful bunch of flowers that are beside me now as I type these words, a reminder that one thing in my life is working out. Not that I’m wallowing at all… well not much anyway. I read the beginnings of Chapter One yesterday and can see how much work there is left to do… My problem is that I feel guilty writing, reading. Anything that doesn’t involve applying for jobs and getting that all important second salary.

I watched a programme recently with the topic: Happiness is a Choice. And it’s true. Happiness IS a choice. I can either retreat into depression and self doubt or I can choose to look around me and find happiness. I am blessed in many ways and I choose to concentrate on those things when the depression is calling. It’s funny how a good cry can actually make you feel better. I’m chatting to my sister on Messenger and we are talking about our father. Whom we adored. He lost his fight to Cancer in 2005 and yes it may have been five years ago, but it still seems like yesterday. We talk about him sometimes and what we miss. Today is no different. But still as I sit here with tears flowing, I remember the love we shared and the tears flow only because he bought so much joy and he was SO loved. What I’m rambling on about in essence is that even through the tears I choose to be happy because I had a person like my father in my life. In Middle Eastern culture the amount of tears you cry for your God is testament to your faith. And although I’m in no way implying my father is in anyway as high as God, the tears I cry are sure testament to my faith in him.

Thank you for reading.


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