Book Review: The Geography of Bliss

My newly formed book group chose Eric Weiner's The Geography of Bliss for our maiden selection. Weiner is a foreign correspondent for NPR and a self-proclaimed grump. He decides to take up a study of happiness, and starting out in Holland where Professor Ruut Veenhoven maintains the World Database of Happiness, he embarks on a 'round-the-world tour to find the secrets of true happiness. Weiner's travels take him to such disparate places as Switzerland (mmm, chocolate), Bhutan (whose king abandoned the index of Gross National Product in favor of Gross National Happiness,) Qatar, Iceland (in winter,) Moldova, Thailand, Great Britain, India, and the U.S.

Weiner writes in the style of Bill Bryson or Tony Horwitz, which makes for a mostly light-hearted and enjoyable read. I was reluctant to give myself over to it at first -- just another smug NPR commentator cashing in with a quirky travelogue. (Maybe I was experiencing some envy, which research has shown to be a happiness-killer.) However, halfway through Switzerland I was happy to be along for the ride.

I was a little put off by the chapter on Moldova, which I thought Weiner (and everyone else) treated a little unfairly. Moldova, you see, ranks fairly low in Veenhoven's happiness database and there seemed to be a fair amount of kicking a place that is already down. A country's fortunes can change fairly quickly. In fact, I would be interested in seeing how a country like Iceland is faring now after their economic collapse (although research shows that happiness is not necessarily related to money, not in ways that one might think, anyway.)

The Geography of Bliss was sometimes thought-provoking. I too, often feel like I am a grump, and it is not something of which I am exceedingly proud. It is the manner in which my particular brand of depression manifests itself, and as the child of a grumpy mother myself, it's not something I want to impart to my own children. So I have done a lot over the years to help myself be happy (something that happiness researchers say is almost uniquely American.) I was pleased to see that I have unscientifically incorporated many of the qualities that seem to mark happy people, and indeed I think I can say that my happiness index is quite high these days.

I enjoyed this book. It was not earth-shattering, it was a tad too much like an extended NPR piece, but it gave me some ideas to ponder, some pithy quotes, and was altogether quite relevant. If you enjoy travelogues and non-fiction, I recommend it.

40 Years

One of my happy pastimes is going to events that mark passages in the lives of old family friends, people who I am connected to through my parents mostly. I generally go with my oldest brother Dave, though sometimes by myself. I love it -- even the funerals, sad though they may be. They connect me with my parents, who have both been gone for some time now, and with my past which, seen through the lens of 50 years is actually looking and feeling pretty happy for the most part. Attending these events, being the steward of these connections is a role I have taken on, and one that I love.

Today was no funeral, however.

This afternoon I had the honor and pleasure of going to a party to honor 40 years of marriage for old friends of my family, Charlie and Louise Uphoff. The Uphoffs and the Grindrods go way back, back to my parents' youth and their days as young Socialists. My parents frequented a place called Fellowship Farm, that was overseen by Walter and Mary Jo Uphoff, the ad hoc "parents" I guess, being a few years older. In fact, my parents were married at Fellowship Farm, under the auspices of Walt and Mary Jo (and a radical minister named Shorty Collins.) Many years later, their son Charlie brought his wife Louise to live at Fellowship Farm. It was the late sixties/early seventies. I was on the cusp of adolescence and I thought they were one of the coolest, hippest couples I had ever met. They lived in a ramshackle farmhouse with tattered peace posters on the wall. They had a chair in their living room made out of the hood of a VW Bug -- how cool is that? I'll answer for you -- REALLY cool! And then they did something even cooler -- they had a baby, and I got to babysit for her!

So now 40 years have passed and I was reflecting on all of that. We're coming up on our 23rd anniversary. I hope that we can celebrate our 40th in such style, surrounded by loving family and friends, children and grandchildren. And I hope we inspire some other young person, show them a model of a happy marriage.

And I will keep maintaining these connections as long as I can.

Anxious to see this movie

I don't think it has been released in the U.S. Too esoteric? I'll bet there are as many Morris dancers here as in Britain, doggone it.

I finally read "Pride and Prejudice!"

I don't think much needs to be said about the plot of Pride and Prejudice. It has been copied endlessly in almost every romantic comedy coming out of Hollywood. They meet, they hate each other, they part, they discover they really love each other and defy the odds to get back together again, and tra-la, they marry and (presumably) live happily ever after. Ah, but was it ever again done so well as this?


I first listened to Pride and Prejudice as an audio book a few years ago. It was snatched from the shelf of the public library in a moment of panic when we were leaving on a 12 hour road trip and had forgotten to get any episodes of Hank the Cowdog, our preferred travel listening. Mr. Feeny (I'm just getting in the P&P mood here) looked dubious when I brought it home. Maybe he was remembering the last time this had happened and I brought Prodigal Summer along, and everyone hated it but me. However, this time it was different. We all loved Pride & Prejudice, laughing heartily all the way to West Virginia and back.


Still, I hadn't read it until last week when I was looking for a book to read while I waited for my book club reads to come into the library. (Yes, I'm in a newly-minted book club.) Jane Austen's writing and humor is so fresh and modern. It is a joy, and if you haven't read it, I highly recommend doing so. 


Today my friend recommended Mr. Darcy Takes A Wife which she says is Pride and Prejudice with the addition of spicy sex scenes. Ooh la la.

Sweet Sixteen

It is hard to believe that my daughter Sophie would be 16 today. I know it's a fruitless exercise, but I spend a lot of time wondering what she would look like and who she would be. I wholeheartedly embrace her life and death as one of my life's enormous mysteries, but there are times when I just feel bereft, and I know I will feel that way until the end of my days. I often feel as if I am holding my breath for these ten days that she was alive. Mostly it is okay; the sad moments remind me that she is very much present in my life and nothing can change that.

Sophie Olivia Grindrod-Feeny, ¡Presenté!

21 Years Ago …

21 years ago was the beginning of an incredible adventure: the birth of my first child, Anna Fiona. Being a mother has brought me unimaginable joy, and I wish this child of mine the happiest of birthdays today.

I have refrained from posting any of the naked ones. No need to thank me, Anna. Just one of the many little kindnesses I have performed over the last 21 years.

It's Wick!

Well, we have gone from winter to spring in a few short days. Piles of snow as high as my head have melted away so quickly, that it's a little disorienting to walk Molly around the neighborhood. I'm simply not used to seeing grass and lawns that are level with the sidewalk! 


I have begun a daily circumnavigation of my house checking for "things coming up", i.e. signs of new growth: the bulbs I planted last fall, perennials coming back, buds on trees. (I am holding my breath that my redbud tree is okay; it was looking sick last year.) When I do this, I am always reminded of one of my favorite books from childhood, The Secret Garden by Frances Hodgson Burnett. Mary, a sickly, surly little girl who has up until the time of her parents' death lived in India, moves to her uncle's estate on the English moors. Her uncle is a bitter and broken widower, and his mansion holds secrets: Mary's invalid cousin Colin and a walled garden that was locked up when the mistress of the house died.


Mary is drawn to the garden, and with the help of Dickon -- a local boy -- the children find their way in to it in the very early spring. I love the part where Dickon roams the garden looking for signs of life and pronounces it "wick" -- local dialect for alive. Of course as the garden comes to life, so do Mary, Colin, and Colin's broken-hearted father. It is a lovely and satisfying book.


I have crocuses blooming, tulips, irises and daffodils peeking out of the ground, forsythia buds swelling. It's wick!

Why am I such a misfit?

My program for Friends General Conference Annual Gathering arrived in the mail a couple of days ago. For the uninitiated, that is the annual gathering of one of the branches of Quakers. It is held every July at a different college campus, almost always in the continental United States. A few years ago it was held in Wisconsin, and with the benefit of a very generous scholarship from FGC and my home Meeting, my daughters and I attended.

There is something very appealing about the idea of it: an entire week of hanging out with Quakers can be a heady thing. Week-long workshops are offered; there are many opportunities to explore one's spirituality or to connect with others like-minded …

… And I didn't like it! I  was reminded of that once again as I perused this year's invitation. I start to wonder, is there something wrong with me? It should be fun. It's like summer camp! Do I have a serious character flaw?

What I remember was that it was a lonely experience. The only thing worse than being lonely by yourself is being lonely in the midst of a thousand people. I would feel somewhat connected in my workshop (it was about right relationship with money and I discovered that it is an easier topic to explore when you have a little extra money to begin with … and you certainly need to commit a chunk of money to attend Gathering, so maybe that was part of the problem) but then the workshop time would end and I felt at loose ends. Not connected enough with anyone to seek them out -- except my friend Poodle Doc, and I didn't want to be a nuisance to him -- I would walk into the enormous cafeteria at mealtimes and it was full of tables of people, longtime friends and new acquaintances eating and chatting, and it didn't seem as if there was any room for me anywhere.

That was compounded by the fact that my younger daughter was having a hard time in her workshop -- a theatrical production of an African folk tale using giant puppets that the kids constructed. She wasn't really connecting either. (Oh no, is my social malady something I've passed down to my children?) And I still have some deep concerns about how the adults in charge of her workshop ran the week, but that's water under the bridge.

All around me everybody else seemed to be having a great time. I have friends who plan their summers around Gathering, they go back year after year. I guess I'm just not that person. What I find myself yearning for is some kind of a hermitage -- maybe a hermitage with regular conjugal visits -- but no demands. No workshops, no graduate school projects due, no work come Monday, no expectations. A gathering of one -- me. Now that idea speaks to me. I could knit, read, play my guitar, walk my dog. See my family some (because I would miss them pretty quickly.)

I'm waiting for that brochure to arrive in the mail.