What most of us long for above all else is ‘security’, the sense that we are – at
last – safe on the earth. We pin our hopes for security on a shifting array of targets:
a happy relationship, a house, children, a good profession, public respect, a certain
sum of money… When these are ours, we fervently believe, we will finally be at peace. We may
mock the term ‘happily ever after,’ synonymous as it is with naive children’s literature
but in practice, we do indeed tend to live as if we could one day, somewhere over the
horizon, reach a place of rest, satisfaction and safety. It’s therefore worth trying
to understand why happiness ‘ever after’ should be congenitally so impossible. It isn’t
that we can’t ever have a good relationship, a house or a pension. We may well have all
this – and more. It’s simply that these won’t be able to deliver what we hope for
from them. We will still worry in the arms of a kind and interesting partner, we will
still fret in a well-appointed kitchen, our terrors won’t cease whatever income we have.
It sounds implausible – especially when these goods are still far out of our grasp
– but we should trust this fundamental truth in order to make an honest peace with the
forbidding facts of the human condition. We can never properly be secure, because so long
as we are alive, we will be alert to danger and in some way at risk. The only people with
full security are the dead; the only people who can be truly at peace are under the ground;
cemeteries are the only definitively calm places around. There is a certain nobility
in coming to accept this fact – and the unending nature of worry in our lives. We
should both recognise the intensity of our desire for a happy endpoint and at the same
time acknowledge the inbuilt reasons why it cannot be ours. We should give up on The Arrival
Fallacy, the conviction that there might be such a thing as a destination, in the sense
of a stable position beyond which we will no longer suffer, crave and dread. The feeling
that there must be such a point of arrival begins in childhood, with a longing for certain
toys; then the destination shifts, perhaps to love, or career. Other popular destinations
include Children and Family, Fame; Retirement or (even) After the Novel is Published. It
isn’t that these places don’t exist. It’s just that they aren’t places that we can
pull up at, settle in, feel adequately sheltered by and never want to leave again. None of
these zones will afford us a sense that we have properly arrived. We will soon enough
discover threats and restlessness anew. One response is to imagine that we may be craving
the wrong things, that we should look elsewhere, perhaps to something more esoteric or high-minded:
philosophy or beauty, community or Art. But that is just as illusory. It doesn’t matter
what goals we have: they will never be enough. Life is a process of replacing one anxiety
and one desire with another. No goal spares us renewed goal seeking. The only stable element
in our lives is craving: the only destination is the journey. What are the implications
of fully accepting the Arrival Fallacy? We may still have ambitions, but we’ll have
a certain ironic detachment about what is likely to happen when we fulfill them. We’ll
know the itch will start up again soon enough. Knowing the Arrival Fallacy, we’ll be subject
to illusion, but at least aware of the fact. When we watch others striving, we may experience
slightly less envy. It may look as if certain others have reached ‘there’. But we know
they are still longing and worrying in the mansions of the rich and the suites of CEOs.
We should naturally try to give the journey more attention: we should look out of the
window and appreciate the view whenever we can. But we should also understand why this
can only ever be a partial solution. Our longing is too powerful a force. The greatest wisdom
we’re capable of is to know why true wisdom won’t be fully possible – and instead
pride ourselves on having at least a slight oversight on our madness. We can accept the
ceaselessness of certain anxieties and rather than aim for a yogic calm state, serenely
accept that we will never be definitely calm. Our goal should not be to banish anxiety but
to learn to manage, live well around and – when we can – heartily laugh at, our anxious
longing state.
Our calm book can educate us in the art of remaining calm.
Not through slow breathing or special teas but through thinking.