Everyone loves being busy. My son, for example, spends many hours being busy. For one so young( a year old); one would wonder why he is this busy. All one has to do is walk into our home when we are loading the dishwasher to see the domestic chores he has to handle. (Try constantly climbing onto the dishwasher lid when the relentless mother is pulling you away from it, or face the frustration of having his unloading efforts thwarted at every stage) He has the additional responsibility of identifying objects of a questionable nature and then tinkering with them. Working on finding questionable items of high impact require several skills at once. Tinkering with the empty battery charger, for instance, is a low-medium voltage exclamation mark from the parent, opening the vaseline bottle and looking like a shimmering idol in the evensong after liberal application a medium exclamation – the real crowd pullers are the remote and the phone.
The point is: he is busy.
The daughter is busy too. Her priorities are different from the son’s, but she is busy nevertheless. She is busy playing with her friends, busy making her room a mess, busy making cards that her callous mother throws away.
Which brings me to the husband and I. We are busy too.
Being busy is exhilarating. Makes you feel wanted and keeps you occupied, which is why so many of us fall into the busy trap.
The article, like many others, made me stop and ponder about our lives. How much of what we do is necessary and how much of it is noise? How do we identify the chaff from the grain when we are busy running after the chaff and the grain in the whipping winds?