The more I amble gently through life, the more I am convinced that happiness - or at least contentment - is an inner state of mind unaffected by the buffets of the external world.
This was rammed home to me recently when it became obvious that some people, regardless of the apparent enviability of their lives, find it necessary to complain endlessly about things which really should be the cause of no complaint at all.
I catch myself doing it occasionally, in particular complaining about being woken up at ungodly hours by a crying baby. While this puts a certain strain on one's moods, it is nothing compared to the heartache of losing said baby or having been unable to conceive said baby in the first place. I have resolved not to whinge about it ever again. Children are good, and wonderful, and I love both of mine more than I can ever say.
It's like that with anything I can find to complain about:
The gearbox on my car is thoroughly grendled and has moods of refusing to go into first, usually at a busy junction with a queue building up. And my exhaust pipe has just exploded and will need replacing. But I have a car.
I find it tiring to get home after work and have to set to cooking supper. But we have food to eat.
The heating system needs an overhaul to prevent it going on an off at random and making strange noises. But we have heating.
Everything that bugs me from time to time is something that would be an enviable blessing to many others - my job (I have one), the untidiness of my house (I have a house and posessions with which to be untidy) and so on.
Therefore, I have resolved not to complain about my life any more. I am lucky. I am, basically, a happy man.
Henceforth, I shall only complain about other people who annoy me. Is that a plan or is that a plan?