I’d love to slow down, but I’m too busy being busy

Lauren Kramer

There are times when I find myself making a mental list at day’s end, for no reason other than to wonder in amazement at what I’ve accomplished. Most of the items on the list are invisible to, and unnoticed by, the rest of the family, so part of my tabulation is about pure recognition. When my legs are weary and my mind irritable from the strain of rushing from one task to the next, I need that congratulatory pat on the back, even if I have to deliver it myself.

My list is likely not that different from yours, with a few substitutions here or there. On an average day, it might contain: researched and wrote stories, returned phone calls, tidied house, two loads of laundry washed-folded-put-away, picked up groceries, moved kids from A to B and back to A while cleaning up residues of food-homework-general mess en route, cut the grass, baked cookies and challah buns, made dinner, kitchen gleaming, pulled weeds, went for a run, comforted crying children, mitigated fights, and flopped into bed to review a book before sleeping so I can repeat the list again the next day.

I’m a busy gal, and when my friends and I exchange notes on how our days and weeks are going, the conversation often turns to busyness. “Look how crazy busy things are in my family,” we tell each other. There’s always so much on the go – no time for getting together, deep conversation or sheer fun. We’re running frantically to keep up on the treadmill of our lives, our cellphones buzzing, beeping and whistling at us along the way, reminding us of the ceaseless cycle of appointments, emails, texts and to-do lists awaiting our attention.

I can’t help but notice that our busyness has become both a source of pride and irritation. The pride stems from how much we do, and the suspicion that we’re likely doing, accomplishing and ticking off way more than our friends and neighbours. “Look at how productive I am,” we congratulate ourselves as we text, email and call even as little hands tug on our sleeves hoping for a smidgen of attention. “Mom’s too busy to talk right now,” we say, as we add another inane tweet to the twittersphere, a “like” on Facebook, or a quick email executed in the 30 seconds before the traffic light changes. The irritation comes from a recognition that there’s no end to this busyness, and that no matter how much we do, there’s always more. Lots more.

Really, what’s the point of being so dreadfully busy?

I interviewed an author on the subject many years ago, a man who advocated daily naps and a slower pace of life. “You’ll never guess what my grandfather’s final words were in the seconds before he died,” he told me. “He turned to his wife and said, ‘Don’t forget to pay the gardener.’” Even in his dying breath, this man was mentally ticking items off his to-do list. Is this where I’m headed, too?

It’s stressful living life at this pace, and there’s no finish line in sight. What’s more, the cycle is self-perpetuating. The moment we slow down, we remember how much more there is to do.

The mental list is a pointless exercise, I realize on clear-headed days. There are no extra points earned for brilliant levels of busyness, just more busy around the next corner. The point is to slow down on that treadmill and remember to carefully disembark so we can heed those tugging little hands, spend more time in warm embraces and be fully attentive to the precious moments of our lives long before we’re carried off in a casket.