If you live in America in the 21st century you’ve probably had to listen to a lot of people tell you how busy they are. It’s become the default response when you ask anyone how they’re doing: “Busy!” “So busy.” “Crazy busy.” It is, pretty obviously, a boast disguised as a complaint. And the stock response is a kind of congratulation: “That’s a good problem to have,” or “Better than the opposite.”
It’s not as if any of us wants to live like this; it’s something we collectively force one another to do.
Notice it isn’t generally people pulling back-to-back shifts in the I.C.U. or commuting by bus to three minimum-wage jobs who tell you how busy they are; what those people are is not busy but tired. Exhausted. Dead on their feet. It’s almost always people whose lamented busyness is purely self-imposed: work and obligations they’ve taken on voluntarily, classes and activities they’ve “encouraged” their kids to participate in. They’re busy because of their own ambition or drive or anxiety, because they’re addicted to busyness and dread what they might have to face in its absence. [read]
Taking the time to stop and smell the coffee brewing in the morning. Listening to the birds chirping while you inhale the crisp morning air is a delight and should be savored as much as a delightful meal prepared by a chef. Smelling the flower in the flower bed next to the office door on the way in might be enough relaxation to stimulate the mind for a day of inventive ideas.
Perhaps it was two back surgeries that suddenly took me from the rat race of working three jobs to being in a turtle shell and not moving far for two years. I learned to appreciate the finer things in life that most people just walk by every day and miss.