From the time we are just wee tots, we’re told of the fabled treasure at the rainbow’s end. And the moment we first hear of it, the idea sticks.

For the rest of our lives, that pot will be consciously or subconsciously in mind every time we see one of nature’s delightful and fleeting miracles of light refraction.

What excites us most about that pot is the possibility of freedom and fun, and the promise of the wonderful things we might buy with all those gold sovereigns, or locally, maybe, Krugerrands.

Perhaps as we get older (and not for a moment to suggest that any of us do not want the hard golden metal) the pot may take on a different meaning.

Perhaps our perfect pot would mean being blessed with good health, happiness in our life choices, career satisfaction, steadfast and kind family, and of course, authentic, loyal friends. The real stuff that matters. The stuff that the pot can’t actually buy.

This does not deny the peace of mind, or the options and opportunities that material success can unlock. And yet, remarkably, many of the most successful people I know aren’t happy. I’m not sure what they yearn for, because often their unhappiness boils down to displeasure at others having more. Always looking up. Looking over the fence.

Theodore Roosevelt (a dreadful, intolerant man) allegedly said “comparison is the thief of joy” – and it is.

I love my birthdays. The more virtual candles, the better. Ageing is a profound privilege denied to many. But of course, nobody wants the inevitable infirmness which comes with too long an innings. No easy choices, no binary options. Life is both tough and beautiful. Never one or the other. They co-exist. But I often hear my friends bemoan getting older.

Grab it!! It’s infinitely superior to the alternative.

The greatest golden pot of all, without question, is the health of those we love.

Nothing comes close in importance. And yet, it can be one of the most ignored aspects of our lives: the physical and emotional well-being of our most cherished family and friends, the stuff we take for granted while we focus on our jobs, chase our tails and fill our lives with stuff.

What about the simple joy of phoning an old friend, available to anyone who has some data, across the world on WhatsApp. Because contact is all so accessible today via FaceTime or Zoom or a myriad other channels, we don’t actually do it enough.

Or rather, let me confess, I don’t do it enough. I should be pouring a glass of wine and calling the people I value, who I would be devastated to lose. Yet we often don’t chat. For months or years. That’s no reflection of my love, care or commitment, but it is a limitation in the prioritisation of my time.

And when we do connect, do we actually get round to asking the important questions? Check in on them emotionally? 

A work friend of mine, a professor, recently asked me, “So what do you still dream of doing Mike? What’s next?”

I was completely unprepared for this question as I am very lucky to love what I do, but does that mean I shouldn’t also do other stuff. In addition, perhaps, or even instead of.

I was also taken aback because I don’t recall when last I was asked such a question. The care and interest it showed to ask, got me thinking.

And I thought, yes. I could visit more places, learn another language, learn to cook well, or paint – or find other creative expressions.

I’ve always wanted to run a restaurant. I don’t know why, but I guess I like the idea of creating a place for happiness, laughter and joy. A stage where every night different characters write the script. The discipline of quality and consistency that running a good restaurant would require to be any good is appealing. And I like the discipline of great service.

Barbara Woodhouse, the famed ’80s dog trainer (I can still hear her “Walkies!” instruction) always said, “a trained dog is a happy dog”. And this, in a sense, is something that our pot of gold might hold. Should we be so lucky, the happiness and trust that clearly defined boundaries create can similarly help us in successfully parenting babies and young children. The peace of mind that comes from just knowing.

It’s an ongoing journey, each looking for our own pot of gold. Mostly I suspect it’s right in front of each of us – in our hands already. In the eyes of our friends and family. In the wellbeing of those we cherish. In the memories we hold of those we have loved and those we’ve lost. My memories of my grandparents and my mom are things which no amount of money can ever replace.

Not even 100 pots at the end of any rainbow. DM/ML