“Why did his mind fly uneasily to that void, as if it were the sole reason why life was not thoroughly joyous to him? I suppose it is the way with all men and women who reach middle age without the clear perception that life never can be thoroughly joyous: under the vague dullness of the grey hours, dissatisfaction seeks a definite object, and finds it in the privation of an untried good.” – George Eliot, Silas Marner
I finished reading Silas Marner days ago, a short read of only a few days after the months of work it took to get through Daniel Deronda and Middlemarch. I found in the shortest of Eliot’s novels the largest of epiphanies.
For months I’ve been seeking somewhat desperately the very thing I used to pride myself of doing without. I was thoroughly ashamed of myself; I felt I had betrayed my dignity and the very essence of who I am. But even though I didn’t want to want it – even though when I really examined the issue I could never quite convince myself that it would really amount to any kind of happiness – still I hunted it like a bloodthirsty hound.
I was discontent.
Contentment, contrary to popular belief, is only healthy when circumstances cannot or should not be changed. Discontent can be a sign of selfishness when it’s displayed in a man’s attitude towards his wife, and it can be debilitating when it causes a man on a desert island not to want to gather and cook his dinner because he misses McDonald’s.
But sometimes it’s a signal that the soul has outgrown its surroundings and longs to stretch its legs.
Silas looked out of his house for his lost gold, not from hope of finding it, but from that restlessness of discontent. But while the door was open, Eppie wandered onto his hearth and into his heart. His focus changed from the lifeless pile of gold that wanted or needed, or even knew anything of him, to a life that wanted and needed him to pour himself and all his energy into relationship with it.
I looked for something to hoard, but what I need is something to use me up.
v bookery 