There are other special forms of
this disease without number, but it has but one effect, that of making people
dissatisfied with themselves. This arises from a distemperature of mind and
from desires that one is afraid to express or unable to fulfill, when men
either dare not attempt as much as they wish to do, or fail in their efforts
and depend entirely upon hope.
Such people are always fickle and
changeable, which is a necessary consequence of living in a state of suspense.
They take any way to arrive at their ends, and teach and force themselves to
use both dishonorable and difficult means to do so, so that when their toil has
been in vain they are made wretched by the disgrace of failure, and do not regret
having longed for what was wrong, but having longed for it in vain.
They then begin to feel sorry for
what they have done, and afraid to begin again, and their mind falls by degrees
into a state of endless vacillation, because they can neither command nor obey
their passions, of hesitation, because their life cannot properly develop
itself, and of decay, as the mind becomes stupefied by disappointments.
I have
heard all sorts of philosophers, psychologists, priests, mystics, politicians,
self-help gurus, and talk-show hosts telling us what it is that makes us so
uneasy in this life. Still, I return to this brief account, time and time
again, because it cuts through all the clutter, and it describes so accurately
the anxiety that can eat away at us all.
I
imagine there isn’t a single person on the face of this earth who has not, at
some time and in some way, faced this sort of disappointment and restlessness.
It may be more or less severe, and we may be better or worse at hiding it, but
it always lurks under the surface. We become unhappy with ourselves, and
unhappy with the world, by not quite knowing what we should want, or how to go
about getting it.
We
question ourselves, are dragged down by our doubts, and feel as if our efforts
always fall short. What else could be left, if we have no idea where to turn?
Is there some magic elixir, to be found just around the corner, which will take
away all the uncertainty?
For lack
of better term, I call it being fidgety inside. I grew up in a house that had a
yard full of squirrels, regularly causing mischief by digging their little
holes in my mother’s plantings. They were fascinating to watch, however,
because they seemed the most nervous of creatures. They would dart about from
one place to another, with no discernible pattern, and were spooked by the
slightest motion or sound. They charged in one direction, stopped for a moment
to look shocked and surprised, and then ran back the way they came. If the wind
blew a certain way, their tails would twitch, and they started barking.
Have you
felt that way about your own life on any given day, more often than you are
willing to admit? Yes, I thought so.
When I
find myself discouraged about my very purpose for living, I will behave very
much like one of those squirrels. I will go this way and then that way, become
distracted by bumps and shadows, and try absolutely anything to just make it
through the day. Clueless about what will get the job done, I will follow any
path at all, only to be frustrated when it leads me nowhere.
I choose
all the wrong means to get me to where I think I need to go, and then I am
disappointed when they don’t work out. I don’t feel bad, however, because I
decided on the wrong things to begin with, but only because I didn’t get them
the way I wanted them.
“Wait,
lying, and stealing, and backbiting, and wallowing in indulgence haven’t made
me happy? Maybe if I tried them in a different order?” Good grief!
Not even
being sure of who I am, I surrender myself to my flighty desires and changing
circumstances, afraid to admit this to myself, and afraid someone else might
notice that I have no idea what I’m doing. A man wasn’t made to run a rat race,
or be trapped on a hamster wheel, or live like a fidgety squirrel.
Written in 5/2011
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