We saw whales. First we saw them from a distance. Then we saw them from a hundred yards away. Then we cut our engine and two whales surfaced close to us, and swam closer still. One dove so close to our boat that I could see the white spot by its eye grow dim under the water.

We had reached the summit of bliss. We had come very close to a very important thing. It was like a cathedral on the boat—we were awestruck, amazed. And now that this had happened and everyone felt that it had happened, as everyone had, and the sun was sliding down toward the water and the wind was whipping across the stern and bow, I expected we would head in. The Puget Sound, as I discovered the next day, when we went to a very beautiful beach in a lovely protected cove and dipped our toes in the water, is icy, icy cold, so cold that when you step into it you feel that it has grabbed hold of your foot and is squeezing as hard as it can. When the wind whips across it in the late afternoon, in the absence of a strong, vital sun, you freeze your tits off. I was totally inappropriately dressed, too, thanks to Captain Beau, who had told me that his happiness and the happiness of the other people on board, as well as the happiness of my younger son, who had asked very nicely for whales on this vacation and to whom I had promised them, depended on us leaving Vancouver in good time, choosing our lane at the border crossing wisely, catching the next ferry from Anacortes, and getting to the dock by 3.30. At which point he was late, but that didn’t matter, I was already out there in my skirt and sandals and very thin sweater.

But now we had seen the whales, and everyone had had a whale moment, and so we would go home. I went into the cabin, where it was warmer, and awaited the captain at his helm. Instead we stayed out on the water for another hour and saw more whales. Ninety whales were out in Juan de Fuca that day, and we saw them all, although I saw the balance of them from the cabin, through the window, and didn’t care. They were like wallpaper to me, the rest of the whales. They were lite music. People still walked around the boat saying, Whales! But I had seen whales. I had gotten what I wanted from them. I smiled. Whales. Wonderful. Whales. When are we going home?

It was very beautiful around me. I wasn’t going to die. But I must admit that as we followed the whale pods around Juan de Fuca, my thoughts grew dark, and I experienced dread and unhappiness. Then, at some point, as if it were nothing, Beau turned on the heat and everyone came inside and we shut the cabin doors. The engine roared and we turned back towards the shore. Everyone was happy. Everyone talked. When we stopped and pulled up the crab pots we’d dropped on the way out, they were full of crabs. The females and the small males had to be thrown back. Henry threw several overhand. Beau lobbed one but accidentally hit the fishing rods over his head and she fell, hard, on the running board next to David, who kicked her in with his foot. She’s fine! David said. She says she’s fine! and we all laughed, although later David told me that in the water she sank like a stone. We saw whales! They were magnificent.

So here we are in “the very world, which is the world / Of all of us,—the place where, in the end, / We find our happiness, or not at all!” I thought something like this at the Chinese restaurant two weeks ago, while I waited for my takeout. Staring at the sad live fish just lying around the tank, not doing anything, not really enjoying themselves, I thought, Listen, fishies, this is it. It’s not going to get better. Make the most of it.

Wordsworth said it better, if in a slightly different context.

Our own fish, Tyler, has left us. Well, he hasn’t left us, left us. He’s still lying under some rocks at the bottom of his bowl. But he’s dead. I’m feeling squeamish about the actual flushing. I want David around for this.

We saw a fantastic movie the other night. I don’t know if you’ll ever see it, since it is French and obscure and was only on TCM for a Louis Malle festival they had a few weeks ago. It's called Place de la République and in it Malle took a small crew to the place and asked people questions and filmed them. You could look at the film as an argument that every day everyone, by which I mean me and possibly you, should go out and film a stranger. The people he talks to are so happy to be noticed, to be captured, to be made monumental. And shouldn’t they be noticed? Shouldn’t they be made to feel even as they loiter, buy lottery tickets, worry about their illnesses and mourn the people they have lost, that they are important? Sorry, I’m back to Wordsworth again, to the idea, which Malle is working with also—at the end, over footage of a woman who has lost her mind, he runs a quotation, not Wordsworth, about enjoying the life that can be taken from us at any point—that existence is valuable in itself, and that a radical purposelessness, a failure to make of things more than what they are, is in fact a great success.

Good news and bad news, darlings. Take the good news first. If you take the good news first you get a moment of pure happiness. When you take it second you have the taste of the bad news still in your mouth.

Did I just ruin the good news? Anyway: We’re moving into the kitchen today! It doesn’t sound exciting to you? But it is exciting. I’m excited. I’m happy. I want to dance like James Brown. I want to stand on a Chinatown rooftop and Hula for an hour. I want to sing the entire cast recording of South Pacific, except “Happy Talk”. I will almost certainly get drunk. Here’s your pashta, kids. Enjoy.

Bad news: I don’t know that Tyler, our fish, will ever really be able to enjoy the kitchen the way he wanted to. Oh, Tyler. Born somewhere to some other Betta fish by whatever method Betta fish give birth, then ripped from his parents’ loving embrace, stolen away and sold in a pet store to our babysitter, Jennifer, as a gift for Henry’s birthday. Nothing good happened after that, either. First the bowl was too small, then too cold. It pains me to say it, but young Tyler was the subject of verbal abuse each night when he was too stupid to find his food.

The bowl situation stabilized. He was warmer, and less sluggish. David became adept at feeding him. Then, a fateful day when Henry vigorously stirred the bamboo sticks in Tyler’s bowl, damaging his back fin. Or did he? Because where the fin used to be continues to degrade, and Tyler’s looking all eaten up, somehow, and stays basically at the bottom of his bowl. He’s been in our bedroom for this last part of the construction, and David becomes sad seeing him at night. I offered to flush him, but David said No. Still, I don’t think Tyler is long for this world. Tyler will never enjoy our new kitchen, that he dreamed so long about. But I will.

A bee flew into John’s shirt and stung him. He is now lying on the couch in Jennifer’s arms, watching Scooby. Henry is offering him treats that will make him feel better and that Henry would also enjoy, like ice cream at the ice cream and sports memorabilia store. Henry knows all about bees, having been recently stung twice (even though I said he wouldn’t be). He said to me, You don’t even know what a stinger looks like.

I was stung by a bee the summer between kindergarten and first grade. We were in New Hampshire, at my mother’s family’s vacation house, the backyard of which was filled with bees’ nests. (The inside was filled with bats and mice, and someday I may tell you about them.) My bee had stung me in the thigh. Out on the deck, my mother lay me on my stomach, spread a poultice on my leg and read me Little House on the Prairie while it set. That bee sting brought me happiness.

I’m on hold. The music is very beautiful. There are voices singing, and a saxophone. Now I am talking to someone. I am saying, Hello. I am saying, Can you help me with this? He is saying, Let’s pretend. I am saying, I don’t want to pretend. I want you to help. He is saying, That is exactly what I’m going to pretend I am doing.

I am saying, I regret my previous decision. He is saying, Shhhh, little baby. It’s all right. He is saying, Think of a stream of golden coins falling from my hand into yours. I am saying, That’s how I got into this mess. He is saying, Isn’t the sound of coins falling from my hand into yours soothing? I am saying, uncertainly, There are some things money can’t buy.

I am saying, I am unhappy. He is saying, Of course you are. I am saying, Do you understand what I am saying? He is saying, It is possible to be happy in this universe. I am saying, Not with the phone service I currently have.

He is saying, Have you ever been online? It is a marvelous world where wondrous things can happen. I am saying, I am your responsibility. He is saying, Look over there! I am saying, What? What is it? Our conversation is over. I curse his name.

When my appliances arrive, I am going to be as happy as a woman in a retrograde ad for cleaning products, I am going to load my dishwasher and light my stove and wash my clothes with a spring in my step and, if I could whistle, a whistle on my lips. I can whistle, but it’s a sad little whistle, made a strange way, and I can’t control the note it sounds. I mean, I sound the same note again and again. Anyway, I am going to be so happy doing housework! I am going to tell all my friends how wonderful my new appliances are. Did I already mention that we’ve ordered a microwave that’s a drawer? I hope this is as wonderful as it seems. When the new appliances come, and are installed, and the kitchen has been painted and the stools are at the island and my new sink gleams, I am going to experience real happiness on a daily basis. And you, my friends, will envy me.