Wisdom Tucked in Unlikely Corners

The grooves in his face folds were many and deep, like elephant skin. His hair was an oils museum, gray with occasional streaks of coal. He was talking every time I passed him between Union and University. Most would say he was talking to himself, but he would disagree.

Two weeks shy of a grueling year's anniversary, I worked my last day as a banker in downtown Seattle. I loved the city life around me but detested most moments this "career hat" put me under. For years I had grownup witnessing and practicing the art of aloofness toward salespeople. Now I was on the other end. Worst job I have attempted. Hands down. I'm not an impressive poll; I have had six official, get-your-paycheck-and-pay-Uncle-Sam jobs. This leech of a job, however, gifted me with a variety of wisdom for which I will long be grateful.

The inner voice that quoted Thoreau and led me to find soul-healing companionship in Walden was, it turns out, inaccurate in diction but not rationale. "The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation," he wrote, "What is called resignation is confirmed desperation."

On palpable days of angst as a banker, the definition of desperation pumped with a loud clarity throughout my veins. People were all around, but they couldn't hear.

I passed the man, always talking, and I started talking to God.

When the Ice Is Melting Away

Amidst much anxiety and uncertainty, a then awful familiarity, a quote from my high school days came to awareness. Softly, like how the blues and peach come upon the clouds of dawn, I heard my mind: "Most men lead lives of quiet desperation." I found Walden.

When I was five years old, I had an imaginary friend. His name was pronouns or salutations, like "hey" and "oh yeah," and our conversations danced around these competitive games we'd create. "Oh yeah, well I bet 40 tickets I can hold my breath for 40 seconds!" I'd wager. "You're on," he'd respond with confidence. The tickets were maroon with tattered edges like the ones from those tight, gigantic rolls at the county fair. I was always ahead by hundreds, yet my friend never got discouraged and perked at any opportune wager that crossed our paths. He was, indeed, imaginary. I never saw his figure or color or face. I only saw the red tickets, the rolls they made, and how they floated in thin air as stowage. And I heard his voice.

Thoreau helped me escape to sustained moments of peace. He told me about the itemization and cost of garden supplies and, somehow, I wasn't bored. He pondered the irony of man becoming the tool of the tools he created, and I understood. He understood.

The ice, like a cage atop the flow of life, began to melt back from the shores.