AUSTIN, Texas, September 11, 2005 — I have been thinking about the anniversary of my retirement. So today's anniversary of the airplane terrorist attacks sort of snuck up on me. Not really, I'd read the hype. But that it was today sort of suddenly occurred to me. So I went back to my journal and read some entries from around that time and it was incredibly depressing. I found the hopelessness there. And especially the helplessness. Which I also feel now with the hurricane disaster. I couldn't stop reading this stuff I'd written even though everything about it (including the typos which I actually started fixing) depressed me.

Well, it was rainy today. That's good for the yard. But maybe a little bit of a downer, too. I drove a friend to the airport in the rain. Seeing her off, I thought about my own trip. I'm excited to be going somewhere, but I also have this sense of failure that looms with my third anniversary of retirement. Where's the accomplishment? Traveling? I heard the Red Cross wanted to recruit some more volunteers. But I'm too busy to really be a volunteer. But doing what? Going on trips, going to film festivals, playing tennis. If I thought I was accomplishing something creative, I would be more up.

If I thought I was just getting better control of my own life and closets, I would be more up. So, yeah, I'm a little depressed. My life is perfect, but that doesn't always fend off depression.

After the trip to the airport, FFP suggested going down to Whole Foods. That sounded good to me. We ate a selection of food bar food. (I had some green bean salad, chicken curry, a strange but good eggplant and bacon thing and a seafood salad and also some chillled fruit soup.) Then we went around and bought some salmon burgers, a couple of plums and some packaged foods.

At home, I just lazed around. I could have gone to the gym. I could have worried about stuff for my trip. I could have done some writing, cleaned up something around the house. But I didn't. I read the paper. Watched a movie, Marion Bridge, that we rented from Netflix. Can't remember why we rented it. It was well-made but depressing. Alcoholism, dementia, death, incest. The U.S. Open Men's Final comes on. I eat some garlic dip, watch tennis, try to work the NYT Magazine crossword. The dip (or my stomach full of it and tortilla chips), Agassi's agonizing loss, my inability to do the puzzle? Well, they tail into a hangover of depression not unlike that a working person sometimes feels on Sunday night, realizing that the two-day reprieve from work is over and they have nothing to show for it.

We eat a salmon burger, splitting one of the giant patties. I drink an nonalcoholic beer. We watch The Alamo. Whoa, it was kind of a bad movie, huh? I always wanted to see for myself.

I don't feel as down as I did earlier for some reason I can't quite fathom. I think I feel helpless and vulnerable right along with the people of the Gulf coast. I have lost nothing. I opened my closets and pantry for a few things I wasn't using. I opened my wallet a little as we do for many other charities. Like most people I preserve myself. I know that the gift of distant vulnerabilities exposed is that you learn two lessons. One, flexibility will help in a crisis. And two, chaos will finally overtake everyone. Patch the levies, stop destroying the environment, find competent people to govern. Nevertheless, you will die and the things you cherished, the order you tried to create will decline.

I don't know how I'd react if I really lost something significant in my life. If I were to experience a catastrophic loss of the lives of loved ones in a disaster or a profound loss of property and wealth. I can only hope that my empathy in the tragedies of the world and my vain attempts to put myself in the place of others in the paths of wars, tsunamis, dictators and hurricanes has made me stronger and more prepared. Not to overcome, but to accept and continue. Empathy is painful. Mass suffering draws our modern media attention, of course. I know that singular tragedies play out every day, barely out of view. And sometimes they depress me, too.

So I think I'm depressed for three reasons. One, people suffer and I'm relatively helpless to help them. Two, I worry about being prepared for my own suffering which is as sure as life. Three, I feel guilty if I'm not depressed. And I feel guilty about chasing my small life's errands, relatively undisrupted by the crises of the world.

And sadly, I'm also realistic. I know how ego-centric I am. (And you, too, dear reader, if only you admit it.) I know that I'm waiting for chemicals to wash through my brain and make me happy again. I like to think, when that happens, that it isn't random. I delude myself that I've embraced how lucky I am to have food, water, sanitation and a dry, cool place to sleep, my relatives safe. I pretend I've realized that my depression is useless and silly and perhaps denigrates people who actually suffer. But more and more often I think that it is random and that I have as little influence on the firings in my brain as I do the swirling winds around the earth or President Bush. But if I don't have that in my grasp, then who is this I who writes a journal?