I just took a look at my calendar and came to the realization that every single second of the next six days of my life is completely booked.
Good things. Backpacking. Festivals. Hiking. Time with friends.
Mundane things. Work. Dealing with tenants. Driving five hours to check on one of my rental properties.
I’m not complaining. I prefer to live my life at the speed of a cheetah on meth. Life is short, and I don’t plan on wasting any of mine in front of a soul-sucking television.
Sometimes, though, I wonder if I keep my schedule too full for the unexpected magic of life to take place.
Sometimes, I wonder if I need to take the time to breathe.
To be still. To be silent. To be.
Is it any wonder that every single major religion practices some form of meditation? Even numerous preeminent atheists advocate some form of the practice. It’s in stillness and silence that the clang and clatter of this world fade away, and we’re confronted with the realities of who we are and why we’re here. We take a deep breath, but not to speak.
Maybe the reason God never surprises me, never speaks to me, is because I never give Him a chance to.
God didn’t yell at Elijah. He whispered. “Be still, and know that I am God,” He said.
Chances are, I would’ve missed God’s whispered words.
I don’t actually enjoy meditation. It’s a hard concept for my ESFP mind to grasp. I’m the clinical definition of an extrovert. My batteries are recharged by being around people. I want to do, to create, to move, to talk, to share, to act. I don’t want to just be.
Yet, every single belief system on this planet, including my own, encourages the exact opposite of what I think I need.
This morning, as I surveyed my schedule, I was struck by a need for solitude. For meditation. So, what did I do? Instead of breathing, I decided to busy myself by writing about it.
Apparently, I don’t breathe. I hyperventilate.
Maybe someday I’ll learn.