Put aside the irresponsible cheerleading for the extension of happiness' pursuit to narcotics; have we forgotten about the ease with which we can be taken into comfort?

Today's weather patterns in Cleveland are of the character I describe as, not at all inappropriately, "Dagobah." Cloudy, wet, muggy, foggy. It is conspicuously unattended by bats, lizards and the awful sort of bog monsters that try to swallow venerable R2 units whole. But it's enough for me; if Vitamin D could be injected intravenously, I'd carry around a vial and needle like a diabetic. Clouds are fine; thunderstorms moving in and out are better - but blankets of grey slay me. They say tunnel and limits, two concepts I widely dislike.

Driving back from lunch today - a Dagobah day that had me tied up in lethargy - I slipped my disc of the 1995 U2-Brian Eno collaboration Passengers: Original Soundtracks Volume 1 in the car's player and, overwhelming the clouds' stricture, found myself off into one of my favorite worlds: memories. It was an instrument or a sound or a melody that began my jump back about twelve years and then, from there, I skipped forward like a stone on a pond, hitting this memory and that - not necessarily connecting them; simply enjoying them. I'm amazed at how nearly every period of my life, when cast in hindsight, comes away with a fantastic, rose-colored patina. Whatever frets or challenges or sadnesses I struggled with at the time are set neatly into perspective and the beauty of everything else around me back then - especially as I remember most of it quite accurately - can be appreciated by itself. The memories are plush and for one's immersing; I giddily, silently revel in the delight.

And when the memory can oblige, the light is always - always - golden-yellow of warm sunshine.