When the World Is Too Much
Some fragmented thoughts on living through a modern deluge of news and information, the appeals of simplicity, good sportsmanship, and writing advice
Thursday, September 14
Grand Rapids, Mich.
Last month, it was the inferno that engulfed Lahaina. This month—this week!—the devastating earthquake in Morocco and the monstrous floods in Libya. All the while, wildfires have raged across Canada and eastern Russia. The war in Ukraine and deadly ethnic battles in the Indian state of Manipur continue, as does the American epidemic of gun violence.
It all seems too much.
What of our fragile hearts, our feeble brains, and our struggling spirits? I haven’t even named the griefs and trials that are particularly personal—a cancer diagnosis, yet another month where income doesn’t meet expenses, the collapse of a marriage, a rift in a friendship, the rippling effects of addiction, a crisis of faith.
I don’t think there’s any shame in saying that it all seems too much. I also don’t think we were meant to live like this. I don’t think we can live like this. By that, I mean that I do not think that the individual human body and soul, mind and spirit, has the capacity to grapple in any real way with the onslaught of information that comes at us from every angle, near and far, and through every screen, throughout every day.
It all seems too much.
Just after the turn of the 20th century, the German sociologist Georg Simmel wrote a seminal essay called “The Metropolis and Mental Life.” It was one of the first essays to wrestle concretely with the implications of information overload, though Simmel didn’t call it that. Simmel, who grew up in Berlin, was a keen observer of the patterns and behaviors of those around him and of the life of the city. In modern, metropolitan life, he wrote, “stimulations, interests, and the taking up of time and attention present themselves from all sides and carry it in a stream which scarcely requires any individual efforts for its ongoing.” We’re all just swept along—but there’s a cost.
Simmel hypothesized that the city, with all its stimuli, compelled humans to shift their way of thinking—indeed, their way of being—because everything seemed too much. Some people tried to compete, shouting louder, acting more outlandishly, differentiating themselves however possible, reacting to the muchness by adding yet more. Others shut down: “The nerves reveal their final possibility of adjusting themselves to the content and form of metropolitan life by renouncing their response to them,” Simmel writes. In other words, faced with the prospect of feeling too much, they instead chose to feel as little as possible. He calls this adopted posture of indifference “the blasé outlook.”
In our times, we can understand Simmel’s depiction of the city metaphorically too: The city is our tech-enabled wonderland, including the Internet and our cellphones and our streaming services and our social-media platforms, a multifaceted place where one can find all manner of diversity, all kind of story, all sorts of diversion. It is so much, often in amazing ways. But the onslaught of bits and bytes can diminish us too, even without our realizing it. In the endless posts and videos and uploads and downloads and shows—everything that could be considered “content”—we can unwittingly grow discontent.
Simmel doesn’t romanticize what existed before cities. Indeed, he acknowledges that communal life could be stifling, especially for those who were different, particularly for any who might “pass beyond the boundaries of such a community.” He understands the appeal of the city as a place where an individual can find more freedom. But freedom never comes without cost. It ought to be handled with immense care. And simply wishing for freedom from something bad will never get you very far: There has to be the wisdom to understand what freedom can be for.
At least in “The Metropolis and Mental Life,” Simmel doesn’t offer an antidote—or not a very clear one anyway. When I read between his (dense and academic) lines about the blasé outlook, though, I sense a yearning for the revival of the inner life, an awakening of human feeling, and an appreciation for healthy boundaries. We are not infinite creatures with infinite capacity, after all. Perhaps it all seems too much because it is too much. We have limits, whether we admit it or not. We need rootedness to hold us. We need rest to refresh us.
It’s chastening to realize that philosophers have been wrestling with the human habit toward too-muchness not just for centuries but really for millennia. Two thousand years ago, for instance, the Roman writer Seneca fretted about the human tendency “to run here and there and distract yourself.... Everywhere is nowhere.” He encouraged a person’s “ability to stay in one place and linger in one’s own company.” He did mention actual physical restlessness, but he was mainly concerned with its intellectual and emotional counterpart, warning that “the reading of many authors and books of every kind might tend to make you meandering and unsteady.” Instead, he counseled, “Every day acquire something that will bolster you against poverty, against death, indeed against other misfortunes too.”
Seneca was writing, I think, about the steady work of cultivating wisdom. In his counsel, I found something of an answer to the predicaments that Simmel identifies. To appropriate a cliché, perhaps less really is more. Perhaps consuming less will allow us to perceive more. Perhaps devouring less might enable us to taste more. Perhaps doing less might empower us to do more.
I think this is one lesson I’ve been learning during my three-plus years living here in Grand Rapids. If you had told me ten years ago that I would be making a life in a small Midwestern city, I would probably have laughed in your face. At that point, I’d spent my entire post-college life in big cities—first London, then New York. It’s what I knew. It’s what I thought I wanted.
Here, we have built a life that, most days, stays within walking distance. Our schedule is marked mainly by lunches and dinners together as well as Fozzie wanting to go out a million times a day. We have our little rituals and our now-beloved routines, among them, Tristan’s lovely practice of bringing me coffee in my study in the early afternoons—iced on warm summer days, hot the rest of the year. Later, Fozzie and I usually head to the community garden to weed, to harvest, and to putter. When I stop to consider the contours of our life here, I realize: We’re putting down roots. We’re cultivating breathing room. Without knowing it, we’ve been pushing against muchness by making a life that’s just enough—and in doing so, we’re realizing that it’s more than enough.
By no means am I claiming that we’ve figured this out, nor am I suggesting that everyone should move to Grand Rapids (please don’t). Tristan can testify that I am still often overwhelmed, still something of a mess many days. But I do think the steadiness and the gentler pace of our life here, edited down as it is compared to our New York existence, is changing me. When I travel, I feel as if I can take more in, taste the flavors with greater appreciation, and encounter new experiences with a more open spirit. When grievous news comes, whether it’s through the headlines or in a text from a friend, I sense more capacity and more clarity as I think with my heart: Where can I make a difference? How can I act on this, whether it’s making a donation or sending up a prayer or keeping my thoughts to myself or cooking a meal or offering some form of solidarity? What does hospitality look like and how might I help love to show up in this situation?
I like to think that, somehow, we have accidentally begun following Seneca’s advice: Every day we are acquiring something that bolsters us against poverty, against death, indeed against other misfortunes. That “something” includes contentment in the life we have and the love we’re still building. That “something” undoubtedly comes through the constant signs of abundance around us, from the birdsong outside to all that grows in the garden and even to Fozzie’s whining, which, if nothing else, is certainly proof of his dogged persistence. That “something” is often the simple recognition of how much we have to be grateful for, which in turn reminds me that I still have plenty of grace and goodness to share.
None of this confers immunity but it does build resilience. And in a world that seems too much, I’m learning about a life that’s just enough. As I do, I’m realizing that “enough” can open me up to so much more.
How do you cope when everything seems all too much? Or maybe you don’t! That’s okay too. What have you attempted to do to bolster yourself and to make room for others’ flourishing?
What’s Inspiring Me: During the men’s doubles U.S. Open final last week, something remarkable happened. The match featured the two-time defending champions, Joe Salisbury of Britain and Rajeev Ram of the U.S., against the Indian player Rohan Bopanna and the Australian Matthew Ebden.
Ebden had just fired what seemed like a clean winner—a crosscourt rocket of a forehand—when Bopanna motioned to the chair umpire and gestured at his elbow. She seemed confused. He explained that Ebden’s shot had grazed his arm and therefore their opponents should receive the point.
The chair umpire hadn’t see it, nor had Bopanna’s opponents or even his playing partner. But in an act of beautiful integrity and profound good sportsmanship, in one of the biggest matches of his life, he conceded the point that only he knew didn’t rightfully belong to his team.
Then there was the remarkable Coco Gauff. Nineteen years old! So unflappable and so wise. When I was 19, I could barely put my pants on properly. “Thank you to the people who didn’t believe in me,” she said after winning her first major title. “To those who thought they were putting water on my fire, you were really adding gas.”
Where are you finding a glimmer of hope or a sliver of inspiration? I’d love to know.
What I’m Reading: A friend told me last week that she hadn’t reached out to me because she didn’t want to disturb me in my writing cave. But what is a writing cave except for a place where a writer seeks any avenue to avoid writing? Sometimes when I’m struggling to form a coherent sentence, I return to a favorite piece of (someone else’s) writing—sometimes for inspiration, sometimes just for respite. One such example, from McSweeney’s, is a very brief essay in the form of a list, by the philosopher Helena de Bres, called “Writing Advice to My Students That Would Also Have Been Good Sex Advice for My High School Boyfriends.” It will take you no more than a minute to read. You’re welcome.
Finally, a writer who is new to me: Jenisha Watts. Her story—her personal, complex, heart-wrenching, beautifully told story—appears on the cover of the October issue of The Atlantic. It moved me tremendously, and I honor the courage it took to write it and to offer it to the world. Set aside some time for Watts’s story; it deserves your attention.
Here’s a picture that nobody asked for, of a dahlia that is growing in our yard. I’ve never grown dahlias before. I think I am starting to understand why people do.
It’s a gift to me, if you find value in these words, for you to share this work.
Feedback is always welcome too; leave a comment here or email me at makebelievefarmer@gmail.com.
I’m so glad we can stumble through all this together, and I’ll try to write again soon.
Much love,
Jeff
Jeff, your words really resonated with me today. While many of my retired peers invite me to various activities, traveling, busyness...so MUCH.... I feel often like I have to defend my contentment here...making myself available for the families and lonely ones that shop in our little farm store....appreciating the quiet and beauty of the creek, and fields and trees, the birds and livestock...its enough. This past week an incident in our neighborhood got national attention and I found myself caught up in the news, the drama and the information deluge...it was exhausting.....I woke this. morning with renewed appreciation for my/our simple life here....be blessed!
You really touched something in me today, Jeff, and in my tears I acknowledge the prayers rising in me through your words. I, too, am a creature of cities who now lives in a small Midwestern town---who daily seeks peace, fulfillment and connection while also being as responsible as possible to the world of needs around me. For so many years in my life, I looked toward my retirement with the question, "How much do I need?" At some point, however, that question changed and became , "How little do I need?" The answer has been "very little"--at least in the accumulative sense. As I have increasingly let go of the tangible and intangible "much," I have walked into the deepest, most profound and sacred richness. What a joy! I thank you for your part in that journey.