The Happiness I Didn’t Buy

Let me start with what I am not.

I am not a consumer, at least not in the way the world often defines it. I buy what I need—groceries, dog food, replacement socks. But I’ve never found myself wandering through a shopping centre just to “see what’s new.” I don’t crave the latest model of anything. If something breaks, I ask first whether it can be fixed.

I’m not acquisitive either. In fact, the older I get, the more I want to live with less. Fewer things, fewer distractions, fewer inboxes. And convenience? Honestly, it doesn’t mean much to me. The quickest way is rarely the most meaningful. There’s something about effort and friction—about taking the long way around—that reveals what matters.

I find joy not in acquisition, but in restraint. In a culture that tells us happiness is just one purchase, one click, one upgrade away. I say—no. I find freedom in owning less, needing less, chasing less.

So, if not that—then what?

What brings me happiness are small, ordinary, everyday things. Priceless, really. But they steady me. They fill my lungs again when life starts to feel too thin.

First, walking.
I walk every day. Sometimes with the dog. Sometimes with a friend. Sometimes alone. The longer the better. There’s something about the rhythm of it—step after step, breath after breath—that clears the fog. In a society that prizes clinical solutions, pharmacological fixes, and controlled environments, I find mental clarity from walking. Something ancient. Primitive. Vulnerable. Free. The body in motion becomes a mind at peace. It is found not in controlling the world, but in entering it—step by step.

Then there’s music.
My playlists would confuse an algorithm—songs from every genre, every continent, every decade. I don’t listen with a critic’s ear; I just know when it’s beautiful. Years ago, I taught in a College of Theology and the Arts. I was surrounded by dancers and piano chords and voices raised in practice and performance. It was very special. Even now, music has that same effect on me—it stills and stirs, lifts and anchors.

People, too.
Oddly I am both an introvert and a people person—someone who gains joy from conversation and connection, but doesn’t seek the limelight or social busyness Not crowds or chit-chat, but connection. Stories. Hopes. A real conversation over a meal or in passing, where someone opens up just a little.
I drove taxis while studying, and I loved that job. Not for the pay—it was barely enough—but for the people. Strangers getting into the back seat, often tired or distracted. But sometimes, something would shift. They’d start talking. And for a few minutes, we weren’t driver and passenger—we were two people, sharing a moment together.

Then, animals.
Not just pets—it’s animals, full stop. Especially those I can’t own, tame, or domesticate. I don’t need to connect with them. I just want them to be. I rejoice in their thriving, even from a distance. I love without possession. I delight in their independence. My joy is not in being needed, but in knowing they are free.

And finally, nature.
I once came home from a long research trip overseas—my first real stretch away. And I felt completely disoriented. I’d grown up with Australia as my world, and suddenly it felt like the edge of the map. Small. Isolated. Insignificant. Then one day I found myself in a national park, sitting alone on a rock ledge. The sun was soft and warm. A breeze moved through the trees. Birds darted and sang without concern for borders or budgets or belonging. And as I sat in that silence, I felt myself return. Not to a country, exactly—but to a place in the world. A place I could inhabit. A place that fit.

This is my disjointed life—the introvert who loves people, the person who walks to heal, the love of animals not owned, the happiness in less, the rediscovery of self in silence—all of it points beyond itself. Which unintentionally bears witness to a God who is odd by worldly standards:

• A king who rides a donkey.
• A Messiah who washes feet.
• A Saviour who wins by dying.
• A Creator who rests.

Ordinary life is a quiet scandal. A defiance of the metrics. A hymn to grace. And that’s why it matters so much.

I am not what the world rewards.
I buy what I need—
but joy comes elsewhere.
In things that don’t ask
to be owned.

I walk,
not to arrive
but to remember.
The road steadies me.
With each step,
my soul unclenches.

I listen to music
not to be entertained
but to be pierced.
Beauty sneaks in
when I’m not guarding the door.

I love people
in passing,
in stories shared between taxi stops
or over bread.
I don’t need to be seen,
just present.
Some connections
don’t need permanence
to be real.

I love animals
I cannot name.
I want them to live
without needing me.
I rejoice in their wildness—
how they belong to no one,
how their joy is not our currency.

And once,
when I returned from a world too wide,
I sat on a rock
and let the silence say what words could not.
The trees did not perform.
The birds did not explain.
But I was held—
not by logic,
but by presence.

These are my joys.
Small.
Unbought.
Free.

They do not add up
the way the world wants.
But they fit
the oddness of God:
who loses to win,
empties to fill,
dies to give life.

And perhaps
that’s the strangest thing of all—
that joy arrives
not when we clutch it,
but when we let it be.