Happiness and peace are words that roll easily off the tongue, though they behave like elusive cats when one actually tries to coax them onto one’s lap. The world, particularly in its noisier moods, sells us endless formulas for happiness: buy this gadget, visit this beach, achieve this promotion. Yet like a mischievous gremlin, happiness tends to slip through the cracks of our best-laid plans.
Peace, meanwhile, is often advertised as the absence of noise, conflict, or stress. But anyone who has sat in a silent room while their mind runs amok with anxieties knows that peace has very little to do with external quiet. True peace is not the muting of sound but the harmonising of the soul.
As I look at my nieces and nephews and consider what sort of world they will inherit, I wish for them not merely happiness in the superficial sense but a capacity for joy, a sturdier, deeper thing that can persist even in hardship. I wish for them not merely peace as the avoidance of conflict but peace as the rootedness that keeps one steady when the storm is howling outside.
I recall my mother once remarking, while peeling potatoes of all things, that happiness had less to do with events and more to do with attitude. At the time, I dismissed her as sentimental. But as I grow older, I begin to see her wisdom. Happiness often sneaks in through the side door, an unexpected laugh, a shared meal, a quiet morning when one realises the kettle’s whistle is, in fact, a song of blessing.
And peace? I have found glimpses of it when I stop trying to manage the world and allow the world to be what it is. Peace is not control but consent, the radical willingness to be present even when the present is less than perfect.
If I am to leave anything to the next generation, may it be the encouragement to seek happiness not in possessions but in moments, and peace not in mastery but in acceptance. These gifts are not flashy, but they endure. They will not make headlines, but they make lives worth living.
