I choose happiness, and happiness chooses me.

My aunt gets talked to at every bus stop in the county. Strangers tell her about their hips, their grandsons, the state of the road outside the school. She thinks she is unusually lucky in the people she meets.

She isn't. She looks up.

Most of us are on a phone with our shoulders angled away, and the world reads that correctly and leaves us alone.

Being chosen by good things looks passive from outside and almost never is. Something small and repeated happens first — an open face, an unhurried second, a willingness to be interrupted.