In sooth, I know not why I am so sad:It wearies me; you say it wearies you;But how I caught it, found it, or came by it,What stuff 'tis made of, whereof it is born,I am to learn;And such a want-wit sadness makes of me,That I have much ado to know myself.
Shakespeare – in The Merchant of Venice – says it best, naturally, but many of us have groaned the same. I wake sad – for no good reason! I’m alive – in OK health – with my chance – dear friends abound – an empty calendar winks – no griefs rampage. If you asked, I’d insist I’m fine, couldn’t be better, which should be true, yet tears gather hotly behind my eyes, my lip quivers, words balk. Nothing’s the matter, dammit, but something is. The state of our nation? Invariably, these days, but one cannot sob forever. How few years remain? (However many are too few.) Granted, but why this morning in particular? It’s a drag, this dreariness, impediment to both productivity and pleasure, as the common cold is to the body – nothing worrisome (yet), but wearisome, as Antonio observes.
My mood swings widen as I age. During my career years, occupation thwarted desolation: I was too busy to grieve. Our modern temptation is to label a condition and prescribe a cure. This oversimplifies and undervalues the actuality. Sometimes, if an attack is bad, I’ll KO consciousness with chemicals, better safe than sorry. More usually, I give my mood its head, let it wander, listen to what it’s trying to say. Dog-pal Henry may be more articulate than my sadness, which moans and mumbles indecipherably. Henry at least makes sense. My moods are, well, moody, sometimes stubborn as a rebellious teen, penalizing without explaining. “What in God’s name is your problem?” my exasperation growls. “Fess up or shut up!”
I envision a secret cabal at the gates of perception, a sort of nefarious admissions committee, debating which notions to allow in and which to bar. Something is “making up” our minds, as Freud discerned, determining which facts, out of an infinitude, to focus on, and that something, in my case, is not “I.” I – the I I imagine – am a passenger in this old prop plane called Carll. Who’s piloting? (For safety reasons, the cockpit door’s kept locked.)
Friends sometimes chide me for overdoing introspection. They’re right, no question. As dogs gnaw bones past nutrition’s tuition, so humans their obsessions. Yet the mystery of consciousness never ceases to tease, taunt, tempt. If I keep digging the beach, maybe I can make my way to China!
Introspection has been my grad school, encyclopedia, pastor, nurse, coach. Puzzled by being, instead of looking up, I look inside. Our minds have minds of their own – and I’m avid to eavesdrop. I do not choose this topic, it chooses me, and if it tires you, sorry, come back tomorrow. My curiosity is insubordinate, ungovernable, and ornery, mocking guidance. If sadness is its conclusion du jour, like it or lump it.
Intellect is the human advantage and defect, our high-five and Achilles’ heel. We think our way to discoveries and doldrums, creativity and cruelty. I am to myself OK at times and a pest at others. I tell you about this because I like to talk and strolling together one has to say something.
The common bias against introspection arises from insecurity. Many of us do not want to “go there.” My parents sure didn’t. To investigate was to invite dissatisfaction. I was raised to be “a good boy,” which did not mean good.