My personal protest against busyness began in graduate school. I remember contentedly writing in my daily planner, filling up every little slot of time. I felt so productive. Important? Maybe that, too. I
did schedule in time to do relational things--dates with Si, Friday nights with my roommates, etc. But each slot was filled.
Assigned.
Designated.
Let's call it the preplanned, prepackaged life, where everything is foreordained {even if you're an Arminian} by your daily planner.
I had a professor that was really into the Spiritual Formation Movement. He was also a bit of an existentialist. One day, he attacked daily planners and all that they signified
as an idea with such ferocity, that I felt compelled to throw mine in the garbage.
And so I did. With great relief, might I add.
I have never had a real, filled up and compartmentalized, daily planner since then. Oh, sure, there is a calendar on our wall in our kitchen. And it has things written on it. And there is also a printout that explains the rhythm of our days. But that is, for me, somehow very different from a planner that I lug everywhere, that I aim to fill up with "important" things to do.
For me, a planner was something I was a slave to. A rhythm? Well, that is something sweet, for it means that we do not have to wake up and
plan. Just like a musical rhythm, it is the beat of the song of our house, to which all of us dance along, playing our separate parts.
The interesting change when I threw away the planner was that I no longer felt rushed. I didn't plan more appointments in a day than I could remember because I didn't have a place to write them all down and I didn't want to neglect any commitments. This then resulted in long stretches of time that were free. Which has now resultes in long stretches of time spent reading to my children, reading near my children, taking walks with the children, reading with or to or near Si, cooking in a leisurely manner, and so on an so forth.
The days are full, but they are not
hurried.
Today I was thinking about the impact of such a life on my children. For one moment today, I felt a sense of rushing, coupled with annoyance. This is because while the children were outside playing, the toddler kept coming back inside. She needed a jacket. She needed to go to the bathroom. She needed to show me a rock. She thought that maybe she needed to go to the bathroom again.
The final time, I felt annoyed. This was not because she kept coming in and out, but because of The Boots. The Boots must be taken off each time she comes in, and then I must help her put them on each time she goes out. She knows how to take them off herself, but she does this s-l-o-w-l-y.
The important thing is that I noticed that the second I felt the rush, the sense of urgency or impatience, I wanted to take her boots off
for her.
It was then that I realized another important connection between leisure and learning, something I've been thinking about through my reading of
Poetic Knowledge.
Leisure and learning are synergistic from very early on, but I just recognized the fact today.
When I think of my busiest day, I cannot ignore that it involves a lot more
work on my part. And this extra work is always me
doing things for my children. I don't mean this in a lazy, I-hate-working sort of way. I mean this in a we-don't-have-time-for-this sort of way.
For instance, on a busy day I will take my toddler to the bathroom. I will dress her. I will clean up the messy toys. I will put on her socks and her shoes. I will wash her hands
for her. I will pick her up and put her in her carseat. I will pick her up and get her out of the car. I will pick her up and put her in her bed for nap. I will lift her out of bed and run her around to leave again.
I will do all of these things even though she can do most of them for herself because
I do them faster.
I do them faster, more efficiently, and
better, by the way, because I have had years of practice.
Which brings me to my point.
My daughter would not have the same years of practice if I
always did these things for her, and if we were very busy people, which we are not, but if we were, I would be very, very tempted to
always do them for her. This is because when I am busy, I hurry. When I hurry, I do not have time for little people to practice buttoning their jackets.
Ahem.
I see this as a very good argument against the socially acceptable family rush. It is admired, especially in suburbia, to chauffer children from event to event. Leisure time is often associated with laziness or sloth, and so it is scorned by the masses.
However, if leisure enables learning, then it might be
learning that is being scorned, whether or not this is subconscious. This, by the way, might explain part of why we have lots of very good ballerinas and soccer players that are, for the most part, very poor readers and thinkers.
So, here I am, seeing another good reason to stand against the rush. Walking slowly allows my children to learn so many skills. It gives me time to
instruct and help rather than
do it in their stead.
Time invested in learning and growing and living the vibrant life is well spent indeed.