can bring us both an answer and a solution.
It's good to have an end to journey toward;but it's the journey that matters, in the end.
URSULA K. LEGUIN
5
Stopping at the Speed of Light
Stopping is paradoxical. It would at first seem, would it not, that if one just stops, that is, does nothing, that it would be a waste of time? Indeed, a way to describe doing nothing is “wasting time.” And when you feel stressed and have too much to do, doing nothing may feel like the worst approach. But paradoxically, doing nothing turns out to be not only not a waste of time, but some of the most significant time you can spend, even if it is only for one minute.
This idea flies in the face of current belief and practice; “Do more and do it more quickly” is what we hear. But it is exactly this attitude that has made us overwhelmed. What we've been doing isn't working.
The kind of Stopping that I am suggesting is done while moving at the speed of light. Stopping while moving at the speed of light is a paradox: To stop on the one hand and to go at the speed of light on the other are contradictory statements that create so radical a paradox that they appear to be an oxymoron. In other words, it doesn't make sense—unless you see it paradoxically! Then it is transformed into an exquisite, inviting, alluring, and richly textured truth: Time spent doing nothing allows us to awaken what is most meaningful and valuable to us.
This soulful truth is actually based on a scientific paradox. The amazing fact is that objects moving at the speed of light no longer experience time. In other words, at the speed of light, time stands still. Scientists assure me that these are true and accurate statements. I don't pretend to understand them scientifically, but I like them. And I like to apply them to Stopping: Stopping is time standing still or standing still in time.
Stopping at the speed of light acknowledges that the Stopping takes place within the context of a very fast world that waits for no one and, if you can't keep up, will leave you behind. It also acknowledges something that many people who teach spirituality are resistant to accept: going fast is not necessarily bad. Many of the “technologies that promote speed are essentially good. The historical record is that human beings have never, ever opted for slowness,” says Jay Walljasper, an editor at The Utne Reader. “When I hear friends complain that their lives move too fast, they're not talking about a wholesale rejection of speed so much as a wish that they could spend more of their time involved in slow, contemplative activities.” The problem, of course, is that there is way too much of one and not enough of the other. Stopping can restore the balance.
Many of us love the “revved-up beat of dance music, the fast-breaking action of basketball, or the speedy thrill of a roller coaster, but we don't want to live all our lives at that pace,” says Walljasper. “A balanced life with intervals of creative frenzy giving way to relaxed tranquillity—is what people crave.” Yes—and that's what Stopping is about.
The ultimate purpose of Stopping is going. But Stopping at the speed of light is not an unfulfilling, endless switching back and forth between going too fast and being dead still. Rather it brings its results—its gifts—to the person, not to the rate of speed. Its wonders are worked in the soul and thus are part of the person no matter what the speed of the moment.
Stopping ten times in a very hectic, emotionally demanding day doesn't feel like a jerky motion, but feels like a smooth flow moving in a balanced way through the day. The results are that you come to the end of the day not limp, exhausted, and depressed, but okay and, with appropriate rest, ready to continue with enthusiasm.
If families just let the culture happen to them,they end up fat, addicted, broke,with a house full of junk and no time.
MARY PIPHER
6
Intentional Living: from Routine to Choice
It used to be that people didn't need Stopping per se because the natural rhythms of life provided sufficient time for them to achieve a sense of balance between quiet work and active work. There were busy times and leisure times and they tended to balance one another. It was just the way life was.
This balance was probably the common experience of our grandparents or great-grandparents. The pace of life allowed for time in between events: the time walking to school, to a neighbor's, or to church; and the time of solitary work around the house, shop, or farm. Life on the land was hard, but there were long stretches of winter when people were homebound and the pace slowed to a crawl.
I can remember, as a boy, loving to drive out with my grandfather to his pig farm in rural northern Ohio. This was in the late ’40s. To me, my grandfather was bigger than life. He was serious but kindly, had an Irish twinkle in his eye, and always greeted me with, “Davit me bye!” My mother was reluctant to let me go with him because I would invariably come home a mess and late for dinner. My grandfather would spend hours checking on the pigs and talking to the farmer who ran the place. But what I did was truly magical. I wandered around the farm—probably never out of eyeshot, or at least earshot, of my grandfather— and explored everything: the barn; the old, rusted machinery; the pigs (I never got too close); and the fields. I was doing nothing but fussin' around, poking about, loafing, hangin' out, and kickin' back.
For most of us (isn't it sad to think of kids deprived of these aimless times?) such moments don't happen very often any more. They aren't built into the pace of life; we're just too busy. Picture these scenes in your mind's eye:
On a leafy street in a small town, suburb, or residential part of the city, a woman in her fifties, with graying hair, a calm look on her face, and wearing a simple house dress and apron, is seated in a rocking chair on her front porch on a warm summer afternoon. Her kids are somewhere in the house, in the yard, or off doing things. Her husband is working on the car in the back. From time to time she hears the laughter and shouts of the neighbors' kids playing in a yard nearby. She is shelling fresh peas for dinner. The work is so familiar that she does it methodically, automatically, and without having to think about it. She takes the peas from the colander, separates peas from pods with a practiced movement of her hand, and drums the fresh peas into a bowl. She rocks slowly. Some moments she thinks of the things that need to be done in her yard: The grass needs cutting, I'll have to remind Tommy and Those nasturtiums are taking over everything, I think I'll pull them up and plant some geraniums. Then she's a million miles away, remembering an event from her own childhood; My how I loved to do that, she says to no one and to anyone. The mailman interrupts this reverie and she chats with him a few moments, catching up with his rounds, his arthritis, and the neighbors' comings and goings. The mailman leaves and she sees that among the four pieces of mail is a letter from her sister in Denver. She puts that letter on top and places the little stack of mail on the porch railing. She glances at the letter and looks forward to opening it. She wonders if it has some news about their brother's health and, as she thinks of him, she offers a quick prayer. When she finishes her work and washes her hands, she'll enjoy taking a few moments to read the letter. This whole scene takes maybe twenty minutes or a half hour.
The banker is writing at his desk. His pen runs dry. He carefully blots the work that he has been doing and puts it aside. He reaches for his inkwell, unscrews the barrel of his pen, and dips it carefully into the inkwell. He engages the lever that will draw ink into the reservoir and pauses to allow the excess ink to spill back into the well. He then reaches into his drawer for a specially kept, small, soft, ink-stained piece of cloth and uses it to wipe the ink from the surface of his pen.
