I have a long-standing theory that it is physically impossible to play the banjo and remain sad at the same time. The instrument simply refuses to cooperate with despair. Its bright, unapologetic ring demands a certain surrender to rhythm, an active insistence on noise over silence. 

My new coworker, Leilani Combs, swears up and down that sad banjo players exist, but until I see one with my own eyes, I remain an absolute skeptic.

The banjo is a deliberate instrument. You don’t passively lean into it; you pick it up, tune the fifth string, and decide to make something lively out of tension and steel.

Living out here on an island in Southeast Alaska, that kind of deliberate effort feels familiar. Life on a remote rock surrounded by cold salt water and endless spruce has a way of stripping away easy excuses. The freight barge runs late, the rain settles in for its third straight week, and the grocery shelves don’t always carry what was on the list.

If you want to build a case for why things cannot be done, an island provides a bottomless supply of evidence.

It is easy to fall into the habit of measuring our lives by what is missing. We point to the lack of specialized resources, the limited daylight, the delayed shipments or the isolation as reasons why joy must wait for better weather or a fuller pantry.

But external circumstances have always made convenient scapegoats. In a world increasingly obsessed with cataloging deficits, we often forget that our internal posture is something we construct ourselves.

There is a timeless Buddhist teaching that speaks directly to this tendency: Pain is inevitable, but suffering is optional. Vietnamese monk Thich Nhat Hanh (1926-2022) expressed a similar truth with quiet simplicity: “There is no way to peace; peace is the way.”

Happiness operates on the very same axis. It’s not an exotic commodity delivered by the next supply plane, nor is it a reward granted only when all outside conditions align perfectly. It’s a path walked in the present moment, requiring a conscious, daily decision to engage with the reality in front of us.

When we constantly excuse our discontent by pointing to missing tools or harsh surroundings, we surrender our agency. We wait for conditions to improve before allowing ourselves to be well. Yet resilience, much like contentment, is never about having every conceivable resource at our fingertips. It’s about what we choose to do with the materials already at hand.

The rain will fall and we greet it with frustration or resolve. The tides will turn without consulting our plans. But the choice to find warmth in a damp season, to appreciate the quiet strength of this island life, and to take responsibility for our own state of mind belongs entirely to us.

And if all else fails on a gray afternoon, you can always pick up a banjo.