The Grass Is Greener Right Now

As spring begins to spread across the land, I’ve found myself appreciating the cherry blossoms above me and the green grass below, which is starting to cover the hills of Southern California.  And I’ve been thinking about old maxim, “The grass is always greener on the other side of the fence.”

In 1969 I hired Jessica as a legal secretary for our two-person law firm.  She worked for me, on and off, until she retired in 2011.

In the early days Jessica seemed to believe “the grass is always greener” idea. Her husband was fighting in Vietnam. “As soon as he gets back, my life will be better.” Then he returned. “As soon as we have a baby, my life will be better.” And she had a baby. “As soon as we move out of Los Angeles, my life will be better.” And they moved. “As soon as I come back to Los Angeles, my life . . . ”

Yes, the grass can always seem greener in another field. We yearn for more and different, and refuse to be completely satisfied with the here and now—which, of course, is all we really have.

So is the grass in the next field really greener than the grass—and weeds—in your own backyard? Does a friend’s spouse seem more desirable than your own? Does the other lane on the freeway always seem to move faster than the lane you’re in? Was everyone else in high school more popular than you?

To quote Shakespeare, “There is nothing good or bad but thinking makes it so.”

Was Jessica happier when her husband returned from Vietnam? Not exactly. When her baby was born?  Not yet. When she and her family moved to Charleston?  That didn’t do the trick.

I’ve talked to Jessica many times since she retired, and she now seems thrilled to live in the “now.” She sleeps as late as she likes, visits her grandchildren often, and works part-time when she wants to. Jessica finally appreciates the green grass on her side of the fence.

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“You don’t know what you’ve got ’til it’s gone.”

—Joni Mitchell, The Big Yellow Taxi

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Back in the 1970s I participated in many encounter groups, popular in Southern California at the time.  I still remember one particular assignment.

I was asked to write down the most important person or thing in my life. I did. Then I wrote down the second most important person or thing. Next the third, until I had a list of the ten most important people, things, or activities, in my life.

After studying the list I was asked to imagine the tenth item disappearing.

Then, the ninth . . . The eighth . . . I experienced the fantasy of losing each of the top ten anchors of my life.

When I imagined #1 vanishing, I cried. I wasn’t even embarrassed by my flowing tears. The entire group was a pool of tears. Each of us lived in a world of grief for a few minutes.

Then the leader asked us to imagine #10 coming back into our lives. Then #9.

By the time I retrieved #1 I was euphoric.

This was one of the most remarkable half-hours of my life: I moved from OK, down to devastated, then up to euphoria. What changed?

Virtually nothing. No one had died. Nothing had actually been taken away. No person, activity, or thing had come into my life or left me.

What changed?

Everything changed. My outlook. My appreciation for the wonderful grass I walked on every day.

The great Phil Ochs once sang: “There’s no place on this earth where I’ll belong when I‘m gone . . . so I guess I have to do it while I’m here.”

That simple exercise helped me to realize that all I treasure—my wife, children, friends, home, writing—will vanish one day, if only when I die. Then, like Ochs, I will not be able to appreciate . . . anything.

Might your grass be greener in the future? Perhaps. And there will always be others who will seem to have a better life than yours. But if you really think about it . . .

Your grass, and mine, is greener right now.

Alan