Quiet Isn't the Problem
“The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation.”
Henry David Thoreau wrote that in Walden more than 170 years ago.
I’ve heard that line most of my life.
And lately I’ve been thinking about it differently.
At first, “quiet desperation” sounds like a warning against a quiet life.
That bothered me.
Because I live a pretty quiet life.
Peggy and I aren’t desperately searching for the next adventure. We’re not trying to fill every weekend or work our way through some giant bucket list before time runs out.
We teach our classes.
We take walks.
We go for drives.
We watch birds.
We spend time together.
We live in a beautiful little corner of the world where you can see an eagle sitting on top of a pine tree looking for breakfast, drive across the Columbia River a few minutes later, and somehow still be impressed by the whole thing even though you’ve done it hundreds of times.
That’s a pretty good morning around here.
And I’ve never thought of any of it as desperation.
Then it hit me.
Quiet isn’t the problem.
Desperation is.
Thoreau wasn’t condemning people for living quietly. In the very next sentence he talks about resignation.
That’s different.
You can live a simple, quiet life and be completely engaged with it.
And you can live an incredibly busy life while quietly wishing you were somewhere else.
That’s the part I can’t stop thinking about.
How many people aren’t really unhappy enough to change anything?
They get up.
Go to work.
Pay the bills.
Make dinner.
Watch television.
Go to bed.
Do it again tomorrow.
Ask them how they’re doing and they’ll probably say the same thing most of us say.
“Fine.”
And they are fine.
Sort of.
Nothing is terribly wrong.
But somewhere along the way, pieces of their life started disappearing.
They stopped doing something they loved because it became a little harder.
They stopped calling somebody.
Stopped going somewhere.
Stopped learning.
Stopped laughing as much.
Stopped noticing things.
Maybe their body became less capable, so their world slowly became smaller with it.
Nothing dramatic happened.
There was no announcement.
They just quietly stopped participating.
I think that’s the desperation Thoreau was talking about.
Not sadness.
Not failure.
Resignation.
The belief that this is just how things are now.
Especially as we get older.
I’ve heard versions of it for years.
“My knees are shot.”
“My balance isn’t what it used to be.”
“I can’t do that anymore.”
“That’s what happens when you get old.”
And sometimes there are real limitations. I’m not pretending otherwise.
But I’ve also watched people accept limitations long before their bodies required them to.
That’s a very different thing.
I’ve spent almost twenty years working with people who thought some part of their life was over.
Then one day they got back on the floor.
Walked up the hill.
Worked in the garden.
Got back on the horse.
Sometimes the victory looks ridiculously small from the outside.
It isn’t.
Because what they really got back wasn’t flexibility or strength.
They got back a piece of their life.
And maybe that’s what living well is really about.
Not constantly searching for more.
Not trying to make every day extraordinary.
Not turning life into another self-improvement project.
Just being there for it.
I don’t need a bigger life.
I rather like this one.
A walk with Peggy can be enough.
An eagle in a tree can be enough.
A room full of people laughing while we’re supposed to be exercising can definitely be enough.
You don’t have to live loudly to live fully.
But you do have to participate.
A full life isn’t measured by how much you can fit into it.
It’s measured by how much of it you’re actually there for.
What Would Be Enough?
Let’s do something with this.
Not someday.
This week.
I want you to think about one deceptively simple question:
What would be enough?
That’s harder than it sounds.
Most of us have spent our entire lives being encouraged to want more.
More money.
More house.
More recognition.
More travel.
More accomplishments.
More stuff.
Even more health.
Better numbers. Better sleep. Better mobility. Better strength. Better longevity.
There’s nothing wrong with wanting things.
I still want things.
I have ideas I want to explore, places Peggy and I want to see, people I want to help, and things I’d like to build.
Contentment doesn’t mean you stop being curious or ambitious.
It means more isn’t required for today to be good.
That’s different.
So sometime this week, find ten quiet minutes.
No special setting required.
You don’t need candles.
You don’t need soothing music.
You certainly don’t need to sit cross-legged under an old-growth tree like the guy in the picture. 😂
Just sit somewhere and consider these three questions:
What in my life already feels like enough?
Don’t rush past this one.
Maybe it’s your home.
Your relationship.
Your friendships.
The town where you live.
The work you do.
The amount of stuff you own.
The way you spend your weekends.
Maybe something you once desperately wanted has quietly become ordinary.
Notice it.
Then ask:
Where am I still chasing more?
Again, we’re not judging it.
Some of that desire may be wonderful.
Maybe you want to learn something.
Build something.
Travel somewhere.
Become stronger.
Repair a relationship.
Change careers.
Good.
But perhaps there’s also something you’re pursuing mostly because you’ve never stopped to ask whether you still want it.
That’s the interesting one.
And finally:
If nobody else could see my life, what would I still want?
Oof.
Sit with that one for a minute.
If nobody knew what car you drove...
If nobody saw your vacation pictures...
If nobody knew how much money you made...
If nobody applauded your accomplishments...
If nobody saw your body...
If there were no likes, followers, neighbors, coworkers, relatives, or strangers to impress...
What would still matter to you?
There’s no correct answer.
And please don’t turn this into another way to judge yourself.
We’re just noticing.
That’s what we’re going to do a lot of here.
Notice.
Get curious.
Try something.
See what happens.
Your experiment for this week
Choose one thing in your life that is already enough.
And for seven days, stop trying to improve it.
Don’t optimize it.
Don’t upgrade it.
Don’t compare it.
Don’t research a better version.
Enjoy the damn thing.
Maybe it’s your morning cup of coffee.
Maybe it’s the old chair where you read.
Maybe it’s dinner with your spouse.
Maybe it’s your daily walk.
Maybe it’s your little house.
Maybe it’s the body that isn’t perfect but still carries you down to the beach.
Whatever you choose, give yourself permission to say:
This is enough.
Then pay attention to what happens.
Does something relax?
Do you enjoy it differently?
Do you notice things you normally miss because you’re already thinking about what’s next?
Does “enough” feel peaceful?
Or does it make you uncomfortable?
That’s useful information too.
You don’t have to shrink your dreams.
You don’t have to stop growing.
You don’t have to settle for a life you don’t want.
We’re simply experimenting with the possibility that a good life can contain both desire and contentment.
You can look forward to tomorrow without treating today like a waiting room.
That’s something I’m learning at 72.
I still have things I want to do.
Lots of them.
But I don’t need a bigger life to prove I’m living a good one.
I’ve got Peggy.
Our little home.
Our studios.
Our students.
Our weekend drives.
The river.
The ocean.
Trails we haven’t walked yet and favorite ones we’ll happily walk again.
Apparently I’ve got my one damn cup of coffee again too. 😂
There’s plenty I still want.
But there’s also an awful lot that’s already enough.
This week, find one piece of your enough.
Then quit messing with it for a while.
Just live it.