At the speed of busyness, the world becomes a blur

My friend Jack has been telling me for a couple of years that only about 20% of what we do really needs to get done. The other 80% is just busywork. The problem is knowing which 20% is the part that matters.

Jack's advice has not quite been believable until recently. My busyness is important. All 100% of it. Perhaps 10% could be left undone, but that extra 10% is what sets me apart, gives me my edge. I've never been afraid of hard work or long hours.

10% I can accept, even if I do find a way to justify it, but 80%? That would mean MOST of what I spend my time being busy with is really unnecessary. What would it mean if that were true?

I was interviewed by a reporter recently and he asked what motivates me. I answered without hesitation. Fear. For most of my life fear has chased me out of bed each morning and sent me scrambling to stay ahead of the growing wave of "things to do". Like a surfer, I've ridden that wave of busyness, exhilarated by its power and immenseness and all the while terrified that it will buckle and come crashing down upon my head.

There seems always far more to do than could ever be done. My fear of not keeping up, and my satisfaction at being able to check something off my list, provides the motivation for my daily churn.

My constant busyness allows for no experience of rest, save for the total exhaustion I feel at the end of each day. There is little room for spontaneity or reflection and even less for miracle or delight.

And as the speed of my busyness intensifies, the world around me begins to blur. Lives that move at a slower pace than mine begin to lose focus. Lives not scheduled on my calendar, their very existence begins to fade.

What would it mean if all this were just busywork? What would it mean indeed?

We Need to Talk

"We need to talk."

When I was single and dating, those were words I never wanted to hear. Generally they preceeded other conversation which included phrases like "It's not you, it's me" "I just need to figure some things out" "I need time alone" and my perennial favorite "I feel like you are one of my very best friends..."

Now that I am married "we need to talk" takes on a different tone, though no less ominous. These days it's more likely to signal a financial crisis conversation than anything else.

Today I heard the words from a customer. In writing. I've had a bad feeling for a couple of weeks, but nothing concrete to tie it to. When you've been doing this (lending money) for as long as I have, you start to develop a six sense about such things.

I read the email. A chill ran down my spine. I am pretty sure what's coming is a combination of both the dating and the marriage scenarios.

Damn it. This is the part of my job I really hate.

Farming

I've been farming lately, or at least I like to think of it that way. I know the more accurate term is gardening. I'm not growing cash crops. I'm not driving a tractor, or a bailer, or a combine. It's just me and my spade and the tiny containers of hopeful shoots and buds - their fate depending completely on my ability to connect them to the life giving earth. They wilt and moan and generally hang their heads with hopelessness as they wait for me to decide where they will go. Days pass. Their heads droop further. Finally I decide. I'm not good at preparing their nest. I don't have the patience. A turn of the spade and they've been dropped into their hole. A good watering. This I have patience for. I count to 20 or 30, or 75 if it's a tree. And then they are on their own. I check in everyday. I watch their progress, trying to figure out what to do if they don't take. Usually they grow. And it amazes me that I can do this.

On Retreat

Not long ago I spent 4 days with my dear friend Lynn in Salt Lake City. Spending time with Lynn is like being on retreat. We have long, deep, authentic conversations. We eat wonderful food and drink delicious wine. We hike in the mornings, soaking up the spectacular mountain views, and spend the afternoons pampering ourselves with massage or yoga or naps. We find lots of reasons to have dessert. We read magazines, share books, go to bed early and start the day again with steaming cups of coffee and tea in the morning light. We both hate to talk on the phone. And neither of us has much time to write. We might not have another meaningful conversation for 12 months, but when Lynn picks me up from the SLC airport next June, we'll start up exactly where we left off. And that is the beauty of our friendship.

Our yoga instructor read this poem by David Whyte at the beginning of class. I've read it every day since I've come home, and so I'll share it with you too.


SELF-PORTRAIT
~David Whyte

It doesn't interest me if there is one God
or many gods.
I want to know if you belong or feel
abandoned,
if you can know despair or see it in others.
I want to know
if you are prepared to live in the world
with its harsh need
to change you. If you can look back
with firm eyes,
saying this is where I stand.
I want to know
if you know
how to melt into that fierce heat of living,
falling toward
the center of your longing.
I want to know
if you are willing
to live, day by day, with the consequence of love
and the bitter
unwanted passion of your sure defeat.
I have heard, in that fierce embrace, even
the gods speak of God.

Two Figures

I’ve been strangely calm these last couple of weeks, like all the craziness of the weeks before have drained my reserves for drama. A water pipe is broken under the building, could cost $10M or more. Really? Too bad. We lose a good client at work. Bad timing. So sorry. I gain several extra pounds over night, and it turns out not to be water weight. Bummer. It all rolls off me like water off a duck’s back. My heartbeat stays slow. No sweaty palms, or racing mind.

Actually that’s not true. An e-mail last week sent me spinning. And that’s when I realized I’d not had that anxious feeling in such a long while.

It makes a difference. The anxiety is cumulative. And so is the calm. Every anxious day increases the chances that I won’t sleep that night. Which in turn increases the chances for more anxiety the next day. Every calm day, increases the chances for more calm days. And so on. And so forth. Forever and ever. Amen.

Sam and I bought a ceramic sculpture at the Brookside Art Fair. Two figures, male and female, looking out over a turbulent ocean. A tiny dingy at the edge of the tide. A white egret perched on its bow. Peace in the midst of struggle. Companionship in the eye of the storm.

Passage of Time

Not so much 40 as now nearly 41.
When did age become so important,
and the date of my birth call forth such intensity?

Today I mourned the death of a man whose phone calls I avoided.
Yet his absence has torn a hole too large to fill.

Twice I’ve called out to his spirit.
In the car, alone, where no one can hear.
"Are you ok?" I’ve asked, to no reply.

I told his daughters he was ornery and they smiled.
I meant that he was abrupt and arrogant.
Or maybe he just knew what he wanted.

Either way he is gone.
"A stinker," his wife said. "Such a stinker."

Not so much alive now, as merely dead and done.
Why did age become so important,
and the date of his death call forth such mourning?

Pushed ...

"The walls came down, it was a fucking disaster."

I said I was sorry.
I am not.