Do humans want to be free?

We say we do. “You’re not the boss of me!” more than one toddler has declared with jut-jawed defiance. Henry, too, tugs at his leash or resists a summons to show us who’s who. Political parties yammer tirelessly about freedom: freedom to bear arms, say, or freedom from fear of being shot. We resent being shackled. Thank God it’s Friday! Free at last!

We all want to be free – of chafing restrictions. But really to be free? Posit yourself at a crossroads. A bristling fingerpost points in a dozen directions. Do you rejoice at so many options? Or are you queasy about choosing wrong?

We all want to be free – to do what we want. But who enjoys being required to choose? Hamlet is free: “to be or not to be.” Is he having a good time?

I dislike choosing. I rule my life with routines to free myself from doubt. I wear the same clothes, perform everyday tasks in a certain order, object to interruptions. This missive will be six hundred words, give or take very few. I’ve been dispatching these daily at this length and hour for more than a decade, not a day off. How’s that for shackles?

I’m happiest enthralled, too engaged to think. I perform best when I’m up against a deadline, convinced I “have no choice.” (“Do or die” isn’t really a choice, unless you’re Hamlet.) I hate intermissions, dawdling, wondering what’s next. Twice in my life, indeterminacy of direction triggered depression, which is no damn fun.

No one likes feeling lost. Uncertainty corrodes the convictions – fictions – from which we construct our lives. “Who are we, really?” we find ourselves asking. “What difference does anything make?” The opposite of utility is futility. Retirees are particularly prone to this dismay.

My Big Book got me thinking about this topic.

Most of my adult life I’ve been working on a Big Book. Finished with one, I commence the next. As my job organized my days (I view these missives as my job), my Big Book dictated my years. I keep my Big Book a secret – from everybody – until it’s baked. Then I will astonish the world with its appearance. The astonishment doesn’t happen, but it’s grand to envision.

My present Big Book has been giving me conniptions. It could be this – or that: how to decide! I’ve recommenced it half a dozen times, ceased to believe in it, maybe I’m kidding myself! My dialogue with myself on this topic is as intense and tedious as it is absurd. The world doesn’t need my Big Book, I know, but I do – to believe I’m needed. I’m heartily sick of my Big Book’s dithering: if only it would make up its mind!

The other day, it did make up its mind. At least I think it did. It decided it would be this and not that. I’m not making an announcement but observing a phenomenon. I’m happiest enslaved – to my idea, suddenly in a rush to finish my book before I kick: get out of my way!

God plays a comparable role in many lives. God is an idea we live by. To serve Him – my old school motto – is perfect freedom. George Herbert extolled such servitude in a poem called “The Elixir.” No matter what you do, he says, if you do it for God it’s splendid.

I yearn to be free – to serve – my idea. Crazy, no?