“[T]he heart-breaking struggle for money, romance, or self-importance.” (Twelve Steps and Twelve Traditions)
In a story by Heinrich Böll, a character uses a paternoster lift in his office block to get to his office, but, each morning, rather than just getting off at his floor, he rides the lift all the way up and over the top through the attic and technical spaces, with their darkness, pulleys, machinery, and nameless, imagined dangers, then back down into the civilisation of the sixth floor, the fifth floor, and so on until he gets off at his own floor, but on the far side of the building. This little thrill of fear sets him up for the day, and he would be lost without it: it is his ‘anxiety breakfast’ (Angstfrühstück in German).
I’ve often had anxiety for breakfast. What would happen without it? I’ve had the experience of getting used to a situation and becoming bored, listless, and panicky because of the apparent pointlessness, the endless expanse of blandness extending to the end of time. What have I done then? Either looked round for a problem to get my teeth into or adopted measures in my life to introduce heady challenges, because I felt alive only when in danger.
“Can we steadfastly content ourselves with the humbler, yet sometimes more durable, satisfactions when the brighter, more glittering achievements are denied us?” (Twelve Steps and Twelve Traditions)
What I’ve tried to move towards is discerning purpose in the sound fulfilment of ordinary everyday activities. When I give myself to those activities as though they are of great significance, which generates diligence, I am as satisfied by the apparently trivialities—and perhaps more so—than by achievement or prominence. Such satisfactions are also unencumbered by the trap of conceit.