What does happiness mean? It depends who you ask. I'd say: contentment. I could probably list 200 things that make me feel content. Sitting on the terrace with my dog Pepe in the evening. Or the recent trip to the Jura with one of my daughters. The people, the atmosphere there – that's what made me happy.
But I wouldn't make the whole thing too complicated. I mean, the whole happiness thing. What concerns me more is why some people have so little of it – and are poor, go hungry, and have to endure war. When someone then asks whether we are the architects of our own happiness, I don't even dare say anything. To be perfectly honest, we've no idea. So: let's just keep our mouths shut. I think that's better than having an opinion on everything.
We should all learn not to take ourselves so seriously.
An «outrageously» happy childhood
You never know what sort of background the person you're talking to has – a difficult childhood, perhaps. Mine was a happy one, outrageously happy. Why? Good question. I had a very strict father and a kind-hearted mum. Of course, back then you had a more distant relationship with your parents than is the case today between me and my four children. I wasn't very good at setting boundaries for them ; my dad was in a different league altogether.
I never felt I was missing anything as a child, back home in Chur. Just a glance from Mum was enough to warm my heart, or watching over Dad's shoulder as he worked. They were both there. At the weekend, they'd show us how to look after the garden, things like that. I remember asking my dad what the meaning of life was. He said: «Help others whenever you can.» I asked him that several times; sometimes he needed a bit of a moment to come up with his answer, but it was always the same.
I don't know if he just made that up on the spot, but it stuck in my mind. By helping others, you're ultimately giving yourself a gift: you get to give others something you find lovely yourself, like a piece of furniture or something. I'm also happy when someone helps me! If you ask me, we should all learn not to take ourselves so seriously.
The love of my life
I was so lucky with my late wife! It was love at first sight. Marlis swept me off my feet. I know full well that we tend to romanticise things in hindsight, but I often find myself wondering: do other people really experience what we had? Or do I just think I was so blessed, and is that simply what marriage feels like?
One thing is certain: Marlis was the love of my life, and even after having four children, I still enjoyed being with her. It was simply – most of the time – lovely. Marlis and I had a lively way of arguing; she was a real leader. So things would flare up from time to time, but it wasn't the sort of row that, I suspect, stems from an open division of roles: who does what? That happens more often with my daughters, because modern couples share all the tasks. For us, it was clear: Marlis looked after the home, and I looked after the business. I've no idea which model is better.
Marlis wasn't planned, nor were my four children, nor the business. It just turned out that way, and it's worked out well for me.
Am I an optimist? Definitely, but then again, not always. I'm content – you can't really help it, can you? I'm self-employed in the field of graphic design and media production. We're winding things down. I've got no plans for what comes next. I've never really had any plans. Marlis wasn't planned, nor were my four children, nor the business. My life has just turned out this way, and it's worked out well for me. But I don't want to show off or sound clever here. I've never chased after happiness – and yet I've been given so much of it.
