Seeds
by
He was a small man with a beard and was very nervous. I remember how the cords of his neck were drawn taut.
For years he had been trying to cure people of illness by the method called psychoanalysis. The idea was the passion of his life.”I came here because I am tired,” he said dejectedly.”My body is not tired but something inside me is old and worn-out. I want joy. For a few days or weeks I would like to forget men and women and the influences that make them the sick things they are.”
There is a note that comes into the human voice by which you may know real weariness. It comes when one has been trying with all his heart and soul to think his way along some difficult road of thought. Of a sudden he finds himself unable to go on. Something within him stops. A tiny explosion takes place. He bursts into words and talks, perhaps foolishly. Little side currents of his nature he didn’t know were there run out and get themselves expressed. It is at such times that a man boasts, uses big words, makes a fool of himself in general.
And so it was the doctor became shrill. He jumped up from the steps where we had been sitting, talking and walked about.”You come from the West. You have kept away from people. You have preserved yourself—damn you! I haven’t—” His voice had indeed become shrill.”I have entered into lives. I have gone beneath the surface of the lives of men and women. Women especially I have studied—our own women, here in America.”
“You have loved them?” I suggested.
“Yes,” he said.”Yes—you are right there. I have done that. It is the only way I can get at things. I have to try to love. You see how that is? It’s the only way. Love must be the beginning of things with me.”
I began to sense the depths of his weariness.”We will go swim in the lake,” I urged.
“I don’t want to swim or do any damn plodding thing. I want to run and shout,” he declared.”For awhile, for a few hours, I want to be like a dead leaf blown by the winds over these hills. I have one desire and one only—to free myself.”
We walked in a dusty country road. I wanted him to know that I thought I understood, so I put the case in my own way.
When he stopped and stared at me I talked.”You are no more and no better than myself,” I declared.”You are a dog that has rolled in offal, and because you are not quite a dog you do not like the smell of your own hide.”
In turn my voice became shrill.”You blind fool,” I cried impatiently.”Men like you are fools. You cannot go along that road. It is given to no man to venture far along the road of lives.”
I became passionately in earnest.”The illness you pretend to cure is the universal illness,” I said.”The thing you want to do cannot be done. Fool—do you expect love to be understood?”
We stood in the road and looked at each other. The suggestion of a sneer played about the corners of his mouth. He put a hand on my shoulder and shook me.”How smart we are—how aptly we put things!”
He spat the words out and then turned and walked a little away.”You think you understand, but you don’t understand,” he cried.”What you say can’t be done can be done. You’re a liar. You cannot be so definite without missing something vague and fine. You miss the whole point. The lives of people are like young trees in a forest. They are being choked by climbing vines. The vines are old thoughts and beliefs planted by dead men. I am myself covered by crawling creeping vines that choke me.”
He laughed bitterly.”And that’s why I want to run and play,” he said.”I want to be a leaf blown by the wind over hills. I want to die and be born again, and I am only a tree covered with vines and slowly dying. I am, you see, weary and want to be made clean. I am an amateur venturing timidly into lives,” he concluded.”I am weary and want to be made clean. I am covered by creeping crawling things.”