There is a Chinese saying that goes:
“If you want happiness for an hour, take a nap. If you want happiness for a day, go fishing. If you want happiness for a year, inherit a fortune. If you want happiness for a lifetime, help someone else.” 

​I like this saying, but I think that we can adjust it to make it unique to each of us. 

​Mine would go something like this:
“If you want happiness for an hour, take a walk outside. If you want happiness for a day, go riding. If you want happiness for a year, raise a foal. If you want happiness for a lifetime, help someone else.”
— For me, that last part does not change.

As many of you know, I have thick, long hair — which is both a curse and a blessing. When I’m working, it’s usually thrown up in a messy bun. When I’m home or out and about, I wear it down. With hair like mine, I consider myself somewhat of a hairtie connoisseur. A collector of quality hairties, if you will. They make me happy. I have them all over my house, in my car, and at the barn.

In preparation to enter Level One of the dungeon, I researched the items I could bring with me and all the things that needed to be done before my arrival. However, I neglected to research the rules regarding one’s bougie hairtie. Surely I’d be allowed to keep it? I mean… have you seen my hair?

Ha. Nope.

No hairties like mine were allowed, and I watched it get tossed out into space along with a tiny piece of my happiness. Hasta la vista, baby… or whatever Arnold said in The Terminator.

I pleaded my case to the “welcoming” DOC aliens, but it was a no-go. I was stripped of everything. Right down to my hairtie. There was nothing left of the old Liz on the outside. But on the inside? I was still there. Still me. Inside my heart, inside my mind.

I just prayed I was strong enough to hold onto all the pieces.

At this point, I’m sure you’re wondering why I’m sharing my hairtie drama with you. Stay with me — it’s worth it, I promise.

​I twisted my hair into a makeshift knot to hold me over as I made the walk to my assigned dorm and bunk at the infamous “Lowell Lodge” in Marion County. Walking into an open bay dorm with approximately 70 bunks can be overwhelming. Actually no, is overwhelming. Especially for someone who doesn’t make a habit of frequenting these kinds of “resorts.”

I wasn’t sure which direction to go to find my cabana — I mean bunk.

An older woman walked up to me and said she would help me find my way. She told me her name was Millie and asked what my bunk number was.

I shared my name and number, and she immediately lit up.
“Oh, you’re right next to me! Don’t worry, I’ll help you. Is this your first time here?”

“Thank you—yes, it is,” I replied.

But in my head, I added: Thank you, yes… and my last time here.

I wasn’t sure what to think of my new acquaintance, but she seemed kind enough—and I was still mourning the loss of my hair tie.

We made our way to my new temporary home, and she helped me put away the few things I had. She showed me how to make my bed to DOC standards and even offered me a book to read. Later that afternoon, she pulled out some coffee ingredients and two Tylenol from her locker.
​
“You look like you could use this,” she said.

In that moment, my definition of grateful suddenly included Millie. I thanked her and told her that I definitely needed it. Maybe even a night in a volcano, too. We shared a laugh.

Then I asked her what the chances were that she had a hair tie in her Mary Poppins–like locker. She rummaged around for a bit, and after some time she replied.

“No, I’m sorry, I don’t have a hair tie… but I found this.”

She held out her hand and presented me with a 6 inch piece of a 1/4 inch wide elastic band. Honestly, I didn’t know what to think—but the MacGyver part of my brain kicked in.

“Yes Millie, that will do just fine! You are a queen!”

I thanked her a million times over for everything she had done for me —her help, and her kindness. I told her it was the happiest I had felt all day.

Her reply was simple:
“It makes me happy if I make someone else happy. I just love to help people.”

Her kindness shocked me. She didn’t expect anything from me. She didn’t even know me from Eve. But somewhere between losing my two-dollar hairtie and finding my place in that dorm, I realized something important:

Maybe we don’t need the two-dollar hairtie. Maybe we really don’t need most material things at all. But maybe what we do need is more people like Millie.

People willing to help someone who looks lost.
People willing to offer kindness when it would be easier not to.
People who can bring a little bit of happiness into someone else’s really hard day.

Because trust me — Millie’s kindness will stay with me for a lifetime.
And no matter where I am, I hope I never stop helping others the same way.

Level 2 completed.

Until next time,
DC Liz