Quiet Desperation

Quiet Desperation

It’s been said, by Thoreau, that most men lead lives of quiet desperation. In my four decades as a “man” (post teenager) I have found this to be sadly true. We are desperate to fulfill the many roles that society deems are ours. We are burdened with multiple responsibilities and saddled with goals that often appear unattainable or, at best, just out of reach. And in our efforts to satisfy these pressures and demands, often subconsciously self-imposed, we persist in bearing the onus quietly alone.

Do we ever achieve the desired status of devoted husband, loving father, loyal friend, competent employee, benevolent boss, worthy Christian, solid neighbor, and stalwart citizen? Or are our attempts to do so more of a hit-or-miss proposition. Perhaps we shouldn’t even try. The big picture is just too daunting. By trying to be all things to all people, we can’t help but fall short. Besides, your friends aren’t really concerned if you’re a good boss. The people you work with don’t care about the status of your relationship with your wife and kids. Your religious affiliation doesn’t matter to your neighbors. They just want you to keep your lawn mowed.


Often an addendum is added to Thoreau’s words. Not only do most men lead lives of quiet desperation, but they also “go to the grave with a song still in them”. This is the part that bothers me. While I grudgingly accept the “quiet desperation” of life, I am genuinely afraid of leaving this earth without having made a difference or established a legacy.

It is one of the reasons I write. In addition to being a therapeutic form of self analysis, writing is an avenue by which I can share my thoughts not only with those of the here-and-now, but also with those to come. I know nothing of what my Dad thought. His quiet desperation was never shared with me. All I know of the fifteen generations of ancestors I have traced is names, dates, and places. With the exception of a few wills, I have nothing tangible to tell me anything about them. I guess their day-to-day existence was of more concern to them than the chronicling of their views of life.

My musings and ruminations, therefore, are part of the legacy I leave to Claire, Cooper, Lulu, their future cousins, and the branches of the family tree that have yet to sprout. My random thoughts are some of the “songs” that I have chosen not to take to the grave. As for the events of my existence, if I was a good Dad, a good husband, a good Christian, a good coach, a good teacher - then my “singing” was worthwhile; I can die knowing that I didn’t take it all with me, that I made a positive impact on the lives of others.

Dying. I recently came to the realization that it isn’t death I am afraid of; it is the fear of not living. How tragic it would be to end up like Stevens, the butler in “The Remains of the Day”. He was so dedicated to his profession that he neglected to participate in the pursuit of happiness. He missed out on fulfillment, on love...on life. Much better, but somehow equally frustrating, was the plight of the title character in “Schindler’s List”. After going to extraordinary lengths to save the lives of over a thousand Jews, he lamented that he could have done more. Despite heroic efforts that affected the lives of generations, he felt that he had left songs unsung.

And so, we live our lives, desperately hoping that, in the end, we will be favorably judged by our maker. But, yoked with self doubt, also knowing that we will invariably come up short when we judge ourselves.