I am filled with envy. A type of envy that leads to ear-burning, shameful yearning for something, anything, else. With flushed cheeks and an ache in my chest, I yearn to be something other than I am.
And how boring! What an absolute waste of time to be this way. Your entire existence being spent focused on the trivial and mundane yearning for something else. The finite fig tree dropping its spoiled fruit and you at the base of the tree, dumbfounded, too paralyzed by your own inability to act to reach up and twist one off. And you realize, with empty hands, that what you are left with is a sore neck and no purpose.
As you walk away, you begin justifying your inaction. You attempt the folly narrative of convincing yourself that, really, your inaction is noble–you’re just too thoughtful and discerning, but you’ll soon make a decision and at that point, you will know for certain it is the right one. So tomorrow, you return to the fig tree and look up again at those green fruits. Are they jeering now? The leaves rustling in the wind sound like whispers of everyone you’ve ever met talking about your potential and all the things you could do. And soon you realize the sun went down and you find yourself, once more, sore and empty.
And sometimes I am hopeful, not envious. That may be the worst part. The complete disillusion that it’s actually gratifying to have rotting opportunities continue to mock you in the name of potential. I look forward with some amount of hope that one day I will fulfill a certain desire in both the subjective and objective sense, to use Susan Wolf’s definition of meaning. And then the veil, the rose-colored lenses, comes off and your view of life is back to square one. Progress lost and silent stalker won.
I recently read Viktor E. Frankl’s Man’s Search for Meaning. I bought this book for a book club that I had good intentions to attend, but never did. I had never heard of the book before, but Frankl was a Jewish prisoner during WWII at four different concentration camps. A psychiatrist by trade, he managed to survive the war and go on to continue his life’s work.
Inspiring and harrowing, Frankl contends that we have to find meaning in suffering. That, in fact, there exists this meaning, but we have to convince ourselves to find it. He even goes so far to say that we have a responsibility to to find the right answers. Huh.
Well, Mr. Frankl, that certainly isn’t very considerate of my fig tree that I am obviously just trying to keep alive, let alone find meaning in.
Condemning someone to a life of having an obligation to their response to their own suffering, whether self-inflicted or not, is a bold move. To say, “yes, these things [sufferings] are true, but what now” would be hard to hear. It’s at once inspiring and terrifying to be held accountable for your own self–one reason why I think some of us resist adulthood so fiercely.
Not to take away from Mr. Frankl; I happen to think that he is entirely correct and I find it both motivating and mobilizing to think of myself as responsible. Though, an itch I cannot scratch becomes apparent in my current state. I’ve known both suffering and peace and while they ebb and flow, I find myself battling the waves of suffering better than I can float in the sea of tranquility. The Ship of Theseus sails the sea of uncertainty and somehow She fares better in storms than in sunshine. Perhaps this is a testament to my own preparation that I have learned to manage quite well. Regardless of what it actually is, it leaves me with the hollow feeling of being incomplete during amnesty. What do you call this?
And of course, this is such a luxury and it cannot be ignored that to be in such a state of reckoning with your own mind and your own thoughts is quite the privilege. These sorts of internal storms are certainly not exclusive of anyone, though I do anticipate that certain basic needs are met before one has the liberty to fully battle the tempest. As such, I do not take my position for granted. I do recognize the bittersweet beauty in this.
And yet, I still find myself jealous of those who manage to keep it together at all times. Jealous that reaching a goal is sufficient for quieting the mind rather than it being a reason to rebel against oneself. It is hard not to be bitter when the only question you get asked is “so what’s your plan now?” As ambitious as I once was and perhaps still am, I am just as thoughtful and concerned about my longevity. A better question to ask is “what do you find fulfilling?”
Ask me about my books or my thoughts on overconsumption of screens or what technology has done to our love for for intellectual stimulation. Ask me what my fears are. Ask me what the wind smells like in the Sierras during an early morning. But for the love of god, stop asking me what my fucking plan is.
The verb suffer comes from sub+ferre–or up+carry/bear. Our proverbial fig tree is grounded with roots, but certainly we carry its weight on our backs. The object of suffering is unknown. Is it the pain itself or is it the lack of content? Is the fig tree causing the suffering or is it the lack of figs? How to know these things is something I have not figured out. I am still stuck on the stage where I feel a certain, special type of envy toward the people who see suffering and can acknowledge suffering, but that is the extent to which they feel toward it. I’ve created a relationship between me and my suffering. It is just as much a part of me as anything else and I’ve fully consented to the marriage.
I can offer no solution here. Mr. Frankl is correct–we are responsible for how we handle suffering. But what if it’s mental? Not to differ responsibility, but what does that even look like? Running off into the woods to smell the wind? The response we elicit to our own mental suffering is not necessarily required to be noble. I refuse to think that we ought to suffer nobly when our own mind is the culprit. How can that be fair?
So I will press on–mentally and physically exhausting myself so that I am not faced with a mind that can continue to run. Is this a response in Mr. Frankl’s book? I ought to think not. It’s differing responsibility onto some other Karly, just not this one. Surely, he’d give me a look and a shake of disapproval, imploring me to do better for myself.
Wolf Den Books 
Leave a comment