One who wanders...

Lately I have been thinking a lot about life and what everything means and why things are the way they are. The inevitable result is that I inflict my thoughts now upon any who will read this.

The primary impetus was a feeling characterized by not wanting to do anything, generally referred to as depression. It is, I think, a common difficulty in our world. Yet I have absolutely no reason to be depressed, but on the contrary, have great reason not to be. So I guess it is as Mr. Gibbs said about something entirely different: "Reason's got nothing to do with it."

Writers do tend toward depression. But I think the poet Rainer Rilke explained it best: "You are looking outside of yourself and that above all you must not do now. Nobody can counsel and help you, nobody."

I started looking outside of myself. I thought if only I could do one thing or another with a friend, then I would be able to get all inspired again. I thought if only I knew what someone thought of an idea, I would be able to go with it. I thought all manner of things like that. It does not work to rely upon other people, nor upon what is outside oneself, but only upon what is inside oneself, which incidentally includes the Greatest of all.

People seem to be inherently unreliable and thus it is foolish to rely upon them. This is not to say that one ought not to rely upon his friends, but only that one ought not to rely too much upon them, or not too much upon too few of them. As Captain Tizoro keeps reminding me, "It's not a matter of knowing who to trust; it's a matter of knowing how far to trust them."

I really think we lose much wisdom when we grow older. When I was a young child, I sagely told my mother that I would never have a best friend because it was foolish to place too much trust in one person. (I remember only the occasion and not the exact words I used.) Then I met someone I thought was very much like me in every way and I went against my childhood wisdom, deciding I would have a best friend. For a time it was a pleasant idea, until we began to drift apart. Then, when we spoke, it was as if we were hundreds of miles apart, whether or not we were in actuality, and there was a great rift between us. The very thought of what I had lost was enough to fill me with sorrow for a good while, but I have learned I ought to place my trust in a better friend, the only true One.

As for the rest, it is as all else in life: all that is gained must be lost, always perhaps to gain a greater thing, but the sorrow is no less real. As Chesterton put it, "Birth is as solemn a parting as death."

Growing up especially is about loss. All things that have happened must be lost to the memories of the past, one's very way of life must be lost, and a great many of those who are close will also drift away. One never knows which of his friends will be lost and which will remain true. Even those closest of all may be lost: those in one's own family.

Yet we all have our different ways of looking at things, even the forming of friendships. Some gather a great multitude of friends all about and always have friends with whom to speak and enjoy good times, whether new or old. Some do not easily make friends and only have a few close friends, whose loss or perceived loss, will fill them with great sorrow. J.R.R. Tolkien was of the latter sort, and I must be as well. Nor is it the only thing we have in common.

But as we traverse the valley of sorrow, we must not always look backward, grieving for what we have lost, but forward. There are a great many adventures that yet await us before we shuffle off this mortal coil.

Thusly have I started out by talking about depression and gotten all the way to quoting Shakespeare. Thus is the strange working of my mind. Thus too is my offering of wisdom to the world: sift it and search for the flakes of gold, if you will, but I make no promises, leaving aside the matter of my liking of the word 'thus' and preference for archaic language and lofty statements.

I might as well end by quoting Tolkien, if only to offer as excuse for my wanderings:

All that is gold does not glitter,
Not all those who wander are lost;
The old that is strong does not wither,
Deep roots are not reached by the frost.
From the ashes a fire shall be woken,
A light from the shadows shall spring;
Renewed shall be blade that was broken,
The crownless again shall be king.