Fine Lines

On Bliss

Katria Wyslotsky

I’ve spent the past few days considering what I have come to understand as or believe to be bliss. What is it about bliss that makes life worth living? What is it about bliss that makes us smile like lunatics, sigh in ultimate contentment, and cry tears of joy? Just what exactly is this thing we call bliss?

Bliss, as you mature and change, alters itself to better suit your needs and life. As children, my brother and I believed that perfect bliss was my grandmother’s home in New Jersey. She and my aunt lived in the first floor apartment and my parents, brother, and I lived on the second floor. The yard seemed to be enormous, full of cubby holes in which to hide, and there were always kittens, little multicolored kittens that seemed to miraculously appear out of nowhere and were then smuggled into the house to play with. The pool was an old nickel wash tub my grandmother had used to launder clothing in before she purchased a washer that had evil looking ringers to squeeze the water out of the clothes. Sometimes, during the spin cycle, it would vibrate so hard that the washer appeared to be walking towards us which would send us shrieking up the stairs to the safety of the kitchen.

We all lived together in the white house with the wide dark gray porch that spanned the entire front portion of the house on White Street. I was four when we moved to Illinois, but I still remember the house. I can still smell the basement and the Ivory soap flakes my grandmother used to launder clothing. It is where my grandmother, once a raven haired Flapper, taught my brother and I how to dance The Shimmy and where my aunt taught us the words to Beatles tunes. It is where we learned our first prayers. It is where our lives began. It is where I first experienced bliss.

A few years ago, while visiting relatives for the Christmas holidays, I returned to my roots, so to speak, and went back to White Street. The yard was overgrown and littered with trash and the house, now a mottled yellowed gray, was in disrepair, and the windows on the first floor were all boarded up. The railing that was once so lovely and graceful as it wrapped around the porch was missing posts so that it looked as if the sadly grinning home was missing teeth. I found out later that the house was being used by drug addicts and was scheduled to be demolished. I will never return to the house on White Street. I am afraid that if I return and find that it has been razed my memories will disappear.

In high school, bliss was a concert at Madison Square Garden where the music was so loud that you felt like the drummer was beating his sticks on your heart. Bliss was a greasy piece of pizza on a Saturday night. Bliss was a prom date. Oh, those frantic weeks before the event, the torment of finding a gown and a date…all relieved by one slightly pimply young man agreeing to escort me to the prom. Bliss was also being with my friends. There’s nothing like a group of adolescent girls in mid-gossip shrieking with laughter as they walk down the street all elbows and knees, wind-swept hair, and flushed cheeks. We traveled in packs, like small, defenseless animals, taking over the local restaurants and annoying the staff. Bliss was having best friends. I still keep contact with two friends from high school. One is a musician who is currently recording her fourth CD and the other is married to the art director of People Magazine, of all things. Is there art in People Magazine? Honestly, I don’t think so, but that’s only my opinion.

Bliss, in my senior year of high school, was being accepted to Georgetown University as part of the graduating class of 1981. I met my room-mate and we immediately had a connection. I traveled down to the university to get my bearings and to learn the layout of the campus. Then, in May of the year in which I graduated from high school, my parents informed me that I was to return home and enroll at the University of Illinois. They weren’t going to pay for any other school, and I lacked the courage to try and make it on my own. Bliss seemed to disappear in a few tersely worded sentences muttered over the telephone line and I moved back to Chicago and registered for classes as I was told to do. After my freshman year at Illinois, the Dean sent me a lovely letter requesting that I enroll at a different institution of higher learning (aka, the local community college). I would be welcomed back once my grades got better. My GPA freshman year was 0.8. That’s all. Just 0.8. That, in itself, is an accomplishment! The expression on my parent’s faces as they received the news gave me a particularly perverse bliss. I told them I wasn’t ready for college. Bliss would have been to listen to me in the first place.

When I was twenty-one, bliss was my son. Never had I seen a creature as miraculous as he was. I loved his smell, the way he made little noises, how he laughed, how he smiled, how he managed to without a single coherent word make me do whatever he wanted…he was the wizard behind the curtain in what was my Oz. He was my best friend, my buddy, my pal, my guaranteed Saturday night date, and my road dog. He laughed at all my jokes, he liked to read the same books that I read, we both hated cooked carrots, and our favorite pastime was to lie on the couch and nap to the sound of a televised golf game. Have you ever listened to a televised golf game? The broadcasters speak in low, soothing tones so as not to disturb the golfer’s thoughts. Why is that? Why were they whispering to people through the television? It can’t possibly detract from the golfer’s technique or performance. And, after all, the broadcasters always seemed to be in a different location. But, if you have a chance, when it’s golfing season, watch a PGA match. It’s better than Valium to put you to sleep. One night, without the benefit of golf, my son went to sleep and never woke up. Bliss disappeared in a flash and agony took over my life for a long, long time.

In my thirties, bliss was a lengthy vacation somewhere that had pristine beaches and warm tropical waters. Bliss was a Pina Colada on a hot evening. Bliss was not having to answer the phone or try to beat rush hour traffic. Bliss was dating a man who wasn’t married, was gainfully employed, and didn’t live with his mother or another woman with whom he was “just friends.” Bliss was a pair of Manolo Blahnik pumps purchased at Nieman Marcus that made you strut, not walk. Bliss was a lunch date. Bliss was a Porsche 944, black exterior, with taupe colored leather seats. Bliss was finally taking a sip of a single malt, well aged Scotch and know what it meant to taste the peat. Bliss was an underwire bra that didn’t sprout fangs each day promptly at five o’clock. Bliss was having some money stashed away in an IRA, mutual funds, and a 401K. Bliss was a parking spot within a hundred yards of your apartment building. Bliss was being invited to a wedding and not having to sit at the singles table. Bliss was a walk down Michigan Avenue in the winter when all the little white lights in the trees twinkle in the gentle snowfall. Bliss was the perfect little black dress. Bliss was being able to afford to have someone else shovel the sidewalk. Bliss was the Green Mill on a Saturday night with your eyes closed listening to jazz so hot it made your toes curl. Bliss was a good dental plan at your place of employment. Bliss existed in possessions, of which I had many. Bliss was short lived. But then, bliss quickly returned once I realized that getting a divorce was the only way to rectify a colossal mistake. Bliss was when he packed his bags and finally moved out.

My forties began with a stunning lack of bliss in prison. Each day, an eternity, seemed to bring its own agony. All of the things that I’d spent the previous two decades running from finally caught up to me and sunk its teeth directly into my somewhat sagging behind that was no longer firm and youthful. The world became a tiny place or very little beauty and equally little bliss. Bliss was surviving a day behind an electrified fence emotionally and intellectually whole and intact. Bliss was a two hour visit from my mother once a month. Bliss was the familiar scent of her cologne on my clothes after she left. Bliss was receiving mail and knowing that you hadn’t been forgotten. Bliss was the day after Christmas, Thanksgiving, or your birthday because it wasn’t as painful to be alone. Bliss was a day when you were not reminded of your unfortunate past and events which lead you to prison. Bliss was the fifteen minutes of phone time allotted to you on a daily basis when you heard the voices of those you most loved in the world. Bliss was the perfume sample insert inside a magazine that gave you a momentary feeling of being human and pretty again as you rubbed it against your wrists. Bliss was finally and forever leaving prison. Bliss was sleeping in my own bed once again. Bliss was hugging the dog. Bliss was washing the dishes. Bliss was answering the phone. Bliss was knowing that no one read your mail before you received it. Bliss was having real cash in your wallet. Bliss was driving the car down a long and empty country road with the windows rolled down, the wind in your hair, and the stereo blasting. Bliss was simply being sober and alive.

Not much can be said about the past eight years of my life and bliss with the exception that it has been a period of tremendous change in my life, in my environment, in my social life, in my family life, and in my future. Gosh…actually, that’s a lot to be said, isn’t it? They say that a woman does not come into her own until she is in her forties. I had difficulty, given my circumstances, adjusting to being forty. I felt that the best years of my life were behind me and that there was nothing but work and drudgery ahead of me until the day I died. I was lead to believe that, without a spouse or a child to raise, my life was empty, joyless, and held nothing good for the future unless I took some drastic action on my own.

So, I mustered up my courage and I went back to school. It was difficult, at the beginning, re-adjusting to a new routine and developing study habits. The fact that I seem to be continuously surrounded by teenagers in class didn’t seem to help much. But, day by day, I became re-involved in life. I have, once and for all, finally convinced myself and have come to firmly believe that my future is not determined by my past and I am not defined as a woman, person, citizen, friend, aunt, sister, or daughter by the worst thing that I have ever done. I am defined by the last good deed I performed, no matter how insignificant and small it may be to others for it was important to someone somewhere in the world. Some people never get to this point of understanding. Some people never truly experience true happiness, much less bliss. All I did was open the door to my heart to a new experience and bliss moved right in. I have been fortunate for I have loved, I have lost, and now I am grateful for I am truly blessed. I am, once again, in bliss.

So, this whole piece began on following your bliss, didn’t it? That if one follows their bliss wonderful things will happen. That’s true, I guess. But its been my experience that you don’t really follow your bliss in life. Instead, bliss has a tendency to grab you by the seat of the pants, send you flying forward at warp speed, all the while shrieking, “LOOK AT IT!! LOOK AT YOUR LIFE! ISN’T THIS ABSOLUTELY INCREDIBLE AND BEAUTIFUL? This, you dummy, is BLISS!” Bliss forces you look at life through its own eyes and teaches you the true meaning of life. What you do with all the information presented to you is entirely up to your own discretion.

At this time in my life, bliss is a new book that is a tropical ocean, fathoms deep, which one dives into without first dipping a toe in to check if it’s too cold. Bliss is a pair of comfortable shoes. Bliss is a wonderful piece of art. Bliss is a balanced checkbook. Bliss is seeing the first tiny purple Crocuses that shoot up from under the snow and open their petals to the sun. Bliss is a family gathering. Bliss is my 68 year old mother surviving two major surgeries within a year. Bliss is my brother’s rapidly receding hairline and the hundreds of barbs I fling at him regarding hair loss and aging. Bliss is being in the same room with my nephew and nieces who amaze me with their command of the world and sense of humor.

Bliss is a man who is so NOT my type who makes me laugh, who understands my references, who is intelligent, kind, generous, creative, and who embodies so many other admirable qualities. He is proudly bald, has a bit of a tummy, and an annoying habit of rubbing his goatee in pensive thought, but he is bliss. He is a nap on a snowy day. He is a good book, a walk in the park at day’s end in the warm rays of the sunset, a full belly after a particularly delicious meal, and a hearty irrepressible laugh. He is without guile or affectation. He, at the age of 48, still doesn’t know how to swim, but I plan on teaching him how to finally float freely and blissfully. He sings and dances alone and without a concern that others may be watching. He plays his brass instruments for the sheer joy of hearing his own music. He is a day at an amusement park. He is a breathtaking rollercoaster ride. He is an unexpected and colorfully wrapped gift. He is a boy at heart with all of the annoying childish habits that I vociferously rail against and secretly admire. He loves the fact that I’m smart. He makes me feel beautiful. He makes me feel wanted. He has brought bliss into my life. He is my bliss.

So, do we truly follow our bliss? Does bliss lead you to ultimate happiness and satisfaction? I guess that that’s what life has always dictated will occur if you follow instructions and advice carefully. One should studiously work toward and follow your bliss, so I’ve been told, but I disagree. I honestly believe that in every lie one tells there is an element of truth and that in every truth there is a small element of a lie. In every fiction there is a provable fact and vice versa. There is a sun and there is a moon, a yin and a yang, and for every action there is an opposite but equal reaction. The same theory can be applied to bliss.

In every bliss, there is a bit of agony, and in every agony there is a bit of bliss. What you do with all of it, all the information you receive whether in agony or in bliss, is what’s important. That’s what determines if you’ll remain in bliss or in agony. It’s all in your hands so choose carefully. Go wherever bliss may lead you and pay close attention to what you are shown. Never, not for a single second, think that it eludes you. Listen to it and heed its call, or sometimes, its whisper. Bliss cannot be ignored, but it can be unintentionally overlooked. Bliss is in the small and everyday things in our lives that we take for granted. Bliss is a perfectly brewed cup of coffee with just the right amount of cream and sugar. Bliss is the way the dog stretches and yawns when you both get out of bed in the morning. Bliss is watching a movie that makes you laugh so hard your stomach hurts. Bliss is munching on a bagel with Lox and Cream Cheese while you’re reading the New York Times on a Sunday morning. Bliss is remembering the old nickel tub my brother and I played in as children, the dent that was left in the plaster molding over the stairway in the house on White Street for it was where my father invariably managed to smack his head as he sped down the stairs, and the kittens that frolicked under the bed linens on summer nights when the windows to the house were thrown open so that we could hear the crickets sing. Bliss is a purple Popsicle and the accompanying startling purple tongue in a hot August day.

Bliss is your mother’s lips pressed to your forehead feeling if you have a smidge of temperature. Bliss is a idle taxi on a rainy day. Bliss is a long, hot bath with someone you love. Bliss is looking at your prom pictures and thinking that you once thought that you were bulletproof and finally came to the understanding that no-one gets through life unscathed and wondering what on earth possessed you to purchase that incredibly ugly gown you’re wearing in the photo in the first place. Bliss is knowing that you now dress more appropriately. Bliss is in that one moment in the spring when you notice that everything which has been gray for months during the winter has, suddenly and miraculously, turned a bright and brilliant shade of green in the spring.

Bliss is each small victory, each passing day, each smile given in your direction, each thank you that you give or you receive, each hand you extend toward another person, each time you return home after a long day toiling at work, and bliss is that wonderful moment between sleeping and waking when the world is perfection and all you feel is contentment. Bliss is the sudden and inexplicable tears coursing down your cheeks from the pain of too much joy and tenderness.

Do not expect bliss to arrive in a timely manner or exactly when you need it. Bliss will simply wander into your life when you need it most. Trust bliss; it always leads you where you need to go whether you want to believe it or not. Don’t fight it. Don’t try to prevent it. Don’t sit around trying to ignore it because it will find you and knock on the door to your soul until you let it in. It exists. You are bliss’s target, and, sooner or later, bliss will find you. Then, when you’re totally immersed in it, wallow in it. Swim along with its current. Wrap it around you like your favorite blanket. Wear it like a wide-brimmed, straw hat with a bright red ribbon tied around the brim. Cannonball into it with a mighty shout. Ride it off into the sunset. Smell it, taste it, swallow it, hold it, and keep it with you always.

Let bliss lead you. It knows you better than you will ever know yourself and will always take you where you need, but not necessarily want, to go. Bliss flies, so relax. Enjoy the flight. Soar over the mountains and into the clouds with it. Rest assured, bliss knows the most joyful route to your destination.