The origin of the quote isn’t clear. Widely attributed to an 18th-century English writer, historian, and politician named Robert Walpole, but also to 17th-century French essayist, Jean de La Bruyère.
“Life is a tragedy for those who feel, and a comedy for those who think.”
But honestly, any of us from the beginning of human existence could have said something about life being a tragedy for the “feelers” among us, and a comedy for the “thinkers.” Or, said more succinctly by 20th-century psychiatrist, M. Scott Peck: “Life is difficult.” Ain’t that the truth.
I lean heavily on the feeling side. Thank goodness, I discovered Peck’s work in the 1970s and learned that the journey isn’t an easy one for any of us. Knowing that helped. It still does.
Lately, I’ve been thinking about—well, many things , really. One thing leads to another, and you know how it goes. Before you know it, you’re caught in a vortex and have to do something drastic to break yourself out of the spinning.
For me, that “something drastic” came about in a quiet and solitary way, as these things do for me. This time, it was sitting on a bench by the river, sipping a cold coffee drink, listening to birdsong and the Divine. I received no answers, really, but gleaned a measure of clarity, and that’s often the best one can hope for. It sets a course. Solidifies something that’s been nudging us to pay attention to.
So, I came away lighter. Maybe a titch wiser. Like I remembered something I had forgotten, which, in my book, fits into the category of gleaning wisdom. I felt an itch to come here and tap out words, returning to the place and practice that has been important in my life for so many years (twenty, next summer).
I’ve been thinking about the quiet among us—of which I count myself among. We don’t always have a seat at any proverbial table. The conversation is too loud, bouncing from topic to topic at a dizzying speed. By the time we’ve thought about it and mustered whatever it takes for us to contribute, the topic has changed, the talkers moved on.
So we set our own table. It’s tucked away in a quiet, out-of-the-way corner. We settle in with our Moleskine and fountain pen, scratching out words and sipping coffee from the big mug that fits our hands perfectly. Then you come, with your own mug of comfort. Sit, we invite, closing our notebook, hooking the clip of our own to the cover, and nudging it to the side. Let’s talk. And we do. And we listen to one another. And it’s time well spent. We both come away richer.
Where am I going with this? I don’t know, maybe nowhere. Can here be enough? Now? Just this moment between you and me?
I can’t bear the noise sometimes, and the sometimes self-inflicted feeling that this little table in the corner where two people connect quietly isn’t as important as the one over there, where they’ve actually pushed a few tables together and the noise and laughter is almost deafening.
But I know that’s not true. Really.
Some of us were made for crowds, others for quiet. We may not have (or want) a seat at that table, but anyone from it is welcome to push their chair back and join us at ours for a heart-to-heart. We feel things with every fibre of our being over here. It’s part of why we’ve got that notebook by our side; if we don’t do something to release them, we’ll burst. But we’re always (okay, usually) happy to move the notebook aside and look into the eyes of another sojourner and share stories.
When the establishment closes and the noisy folk at the big table take their party elsewhere to continue, we’ll slip out the side door. Invisible. We’ve observed and intuited things during our time here, and some will go with us. Tragedies. There are always so many more of them, it seems. Life is difficult.
So, we sit on a wooden bench by a lazy river and listen for something amidst the songs of the sparrows and mourning doves. And afterward, the satisfying crunch of our Birkenstocks on the path back toward our vehicles tamps down the truth we heard in the wind.