This IS the something

It's easy to get sucked into the rhythm of our ridiculously high-tech, over-scheduled culture. In summer, so many of our friends are taking multiple vacations, or their children are attending various camps, or they're juggling a busy schedule of work and sitter and grandparent pick-ups. Plus, the weather is nice and warm; no one is stuck at home, staring at a snowstorm. There are festivals galore, crafts and food and ethnicity and music all being featured here or there. The pool beckons, as do museums, and the zoo, and hiking trails, and the library...

There's a bit of pressure to make the most of the couple of months you have: where should we go today? What's in season? What's on the agenda? Have we been to this place yet? Or should we go to that place? Which is closer? More expensive? Do you friends like this one? I heard this one is fun.

By mid-summer, our steam is beginning to run thin. By August? It's pretty much gone, without even a whistle. It's canning season, there's harvesting to be done, and we're running low on both personal fuel and family budgets. August, I suppose, is the month when you come to appreciate the back yard most of all. It's the month when you truly embrace, out of both weariness and comfort, the beckoning sway of the glider. The very glider where you once read stories to your child is where he now reads them to you. The same glider where you witnessed the first hummingbird of the season will be your seat when you soon bid farewell to those hummers. The glider where you've watched the chipmunks run madly to cover, where you saw the hawk swoop down for a defenseless animal. The very glider where you've welcomed countless mornings and evenings, with their rosy pink skies and array of either chirping birds or prowling bats.

That same patio, that glider, that backyard garden, all of them will provide company when you welcome autumn, and a new classroom teacher for your child. All those yard factors will be present, sitting still, while life moves forward without ceasing. They will comfort you with their sameness even as you mourn the loss of other places, people, traditions.

I'm realizing anew that I don't need to keep telling myself we should be "doing something." Sometimes it's good enough to just sit, and talk, and think. That familiar patio and yard are the setting for my son's most imaginative games, for our best and deepest discussions about what he wants to be and do someday. Yes, we reminisce about Kennywood and the beach. But we also share thoughts, and dreams, and secrets. The baring of hearts happens on that familiar (dare I say boring?) concrete and turf. Those are the places where we permit vulnerability, where we face some frightening and honest truths. Those worn seats and paths bring out what is hidden and real and true.

We don't need to always be "doing something." This is the something, this sharing of selves. It can't happen when we're constantly busy. It must be coaxed by languid minds, into the light of well-known, well-loved territories.

It's not too late. Stop doing something. Start letting out the real.

Suddenly un-busy

Winter is pretty detestable to me, albeit picturesque at times, and each cold season seems longer to me than the last. Yet, winter has a way of reminding me how utterly at the mercy of the elements we all are…and bringing home the value of taking time to do nothing.

For example, last Wednesday was shaping up to be a busy one. We had a regular day of errands, Todd was working as usual, and we were to convene at home for a quick, earlier-than-usual dinner and then rush out the door to a variety of church events beginning at 6. Wet snow was spitting on the little guy and me as we groceried and made other quick stops; after we’d gotten back home, I had begun preparing the meal when I noticed it was snowing more purposefully. Lots of snow. And the snow was beginning to pile up.

I checked the news, saw various watches and warnings flashing across the screen, was overwhelmed with cancellations and doomsday predictions of bad roads and colder temps. Then I checked email, and there was a note from a church person: Everything is cancelled for tonight. Everything. Kid stuff, singing stuff, teenager stuff—all kaput. I confirmed this with the department where I’d been planning to participate that evening, found out the alternate practice time that had been scheduled, and scribbled it on the calendar. Just that quickly, we were in for the night.

Where there’d been busy-ness, there was suddenly free time. In a block of hours that had been completely accounted for, there was now the promise of relaxation, an early bed, coziness instead of mad dashing from car to building to car again. No plan, no agenda—instead, we were given a newly discovered time to breathe and be thankful.

Why does it take a snowstorm to ground us in the values of simplicity? None of the things we do here at our house are inherently bad things; they’re innocent and worthwhile activities. There’s nothing wrong with singing in a choir or attending kids club or playing hoops with some middle schoolers. Still, all those worthwhile pastimes can overtake you if you let them. Suddenly, you’re not being civil to each other, and you’re living in chaos and gulping your meals and tripping over clutter and dirty dishes and forgetting to feed the cat. It just happens, because those are all effects of the cause of over-busyness.

On that snowy, un-busy night, calm was reclaimed. We drank tea, and watched the fluffy whiteness envelop our home, the street, the cars parked resignedly there. No one was going anywhere. And in truth, no one really minded.