“The woods are lovely, dark and deep/But I have promises to keep/ And miles to go before I sleep.”

Robert Frost, “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening.” 1923

I have always been intimidated by happiness and happy people. It is like a destination that is seemingly not too far away and yet arriving is much harder than you thought it would be. I am not gloomy, or dour, or negative—quite the opposite, I think–but I am often overwhelmed by how cruel and random the world can be. I understand survival and helping others. I have felt moments of grace, bits of joy, intimations of transcendence. I embrace humour, am inspired by art, revere holiness and compassion and the quest for meaning. But I do not understand happiness.

Is being happy an ethical issue? As in the case of smiling joyously at the funeral of a murdered child, we can stipulate that there are situations in life where feeling and acting happy would assume the status of a kind of moral prohibition, even an obscenity, over and above the violation of just plain good taste or sensitivity. Sadness must have its undeniable time and place. And trying to block the existential pain that comes with the recognition that there are parts of life that are difficult, if not unbearable – well, perhaps those states of mind are not meant to be negated as much as endured and learned from and climbed past: slowly, haltingly and, ultimately one would hope, emerging the wiser for the journey.

In a sense, that is what the Jewish ritual of shiva is all about, a kind of forced confinement after a loved one has died. According to Jewish law, the mourner does not leave the house for seven days, does not listen to music or have sexual relations–men don’t shave, women do not apply makeup– or promote merriment in any way. Visitors are enjoined to sit with the mourner and wait in non-distracting silence until the mourner chooses to speak.

In prescribing these actions or inactions for the mourner, Jewish law creates a space for beginning to process the reality of the bereavement, with all of its associated emotions. It is a call, a beckoning to grieve. You have suffered a loss, dammit, and you are going to face that fact.

But much of modern life seems to be pulled in the other direction, where there is as much distraction as one desires, where the admission of melancholy is not only emotionally burdensome, but castigated as morally reprehensible, gloom a shocking intruder on the happy world we are all supposed to construct and inhabit and present to others. Did the ancients see happiness as a priority? Did the feudal serf contemplate happiness at the end of yet another backbreaking day? Or has scientific and technological progress, where machines have freed up so much of our time, led to a parallel expectation that we can all be happy? Bertrand Russell links the power of the modern economic engine to the potential transformation within: “For the first time in history, it is now possible owing to the industrial revolution and its by-products to create a world where everybody shall have a reasonable chance of happiness.”

Once happiness becomes a universal possibility, it quickly slides into a sort of obligation. The contemporary French philosopher Paschal Bruckner sardonically describes this fierce imperative to be happy as being condemned to joy: “Happiness becomes not only the biggest industry of the age but also a new moral order. We now find ourselves guilty of not being well, a failing for which we must answer to everyone and to our own consciences … To enjoy was once forbidden; from now on, it’s mandatory.”

For the framers of those magical words of 1776, it is the unbridled ability to pursue happiness that matters; the results were neither imperative nor guaranteed. Still, the quest itself may be damaging, a point emphasized by Viktor Frankl, the world-renowned founder of logotherapy: “It is the very pursuit of happiness that thwarts happiness.” Frankl felt that happiness without an overall sense of living a meaningful life was a non-starter: “It is a characteristic of American culture that, again and again, one is commanded and ordered to ‘be happy.’ But happiness cannot be pursued; it must ensue. One must have a reason to ‘be happy.’”

The cultural pressure to be happy has grown exponentially. Books; tapes, life coaches, university courses. Many psychologists have begun to argue that the inevitable fate of this push for happiness is that a lot of people may have become unhappier than before, as Dr. Todd Kashdan argues: “Organizing your life around trying to become happier, making happiness the primary objective of life, gets in the way of actually becoming happy. In one study, people were asked a number of questions about how much they value happiness and how much they believe it is important to work toward being happy. [And] the greater emphasis put on happiness, the least successful they were at obtaining it.”

Despite Frankl’s warnings, the word is everywhere – Happy Hour; Happy Birthday; Happy Anniversary; Happy Valentine’s Day, Happy Thanksgiving, Happy Hannukah, Happy Christmas (in the UK); Happy New Year; even Happy Groundhog Day greeting cards. And there have been religious teachings that push happiness as well. One well-known articulation of this idea in modern Jewish spirituality is the phrase “It is a great commandment to be happy always.” Though one might be forgiven for thinking that this is the kind of saying found on coffee mugs or fridge magnets, it was actually coined by one of the most intriguing figures in post-Enlightenment religion, Rebbe Nachman of Bratslav [1772-1810]. Rebbe Nachman himself seems to have reportedly suffered from persistent mental anguish, possibly manic-depressive disorder. (One could see his teaching as ironic, or entirely appropriate, within that context.).

There are many people for whom Rebbe Nachman’s saying creates an impossible expectation and, hence, an almost inevitable feeling of inadequacy and even self-loathing, especially those who suffer from mental health challenges. As Rabbi Atarah Cohen notes: “For Rebbe Nachman, occasional joy is not enough. This pressure and potential for guilt are unhealthy ways to live, especially for someone who has a tendency towards self-criticism. Such a way of thinking can become a positive feedback loop of self-blame: if I am not happy, then I blame myself, then I am even less happy, and then I blame myself even more.”

Perhaps we should look at happiness as a gentle aspiration, a fluid goal, rather than a strict mandate to be complied with like paying one’s taxes or not crossing on the red. If it takes a village to raise a child, then maybe it requires a similarly broad spectrum of people to contribute to the happiness of individuals. Obviously, others are not responsible for one’s happiness, but though our relationship with happiness starts with ourselves, it surely does not end there. May we all support each other’s journeys—some fairly smooth; some circuitous, some never ending—towards the joy we seek from sunrise until we lay our bodies down in the darkness.