I keep reading for a couple reasons. One reason is that I am inherently
curious. I like to read what other
people think and what they are doing.
While not all people are interesting, there are a million out there who
are interesting. When they write, I get
to join them and see how they are interesting.
The second reason I keep reading is the fear that I’ll miss something if
I don’t read! While this might seem like
a negative reason, I would argue it as only a different way of putting forth my
curiosity. When I quit reading, I will
know that I have lost interest in life and in myself. Life, as I know it, will be finished.
I was reading the newspaper online the other day. I noticed an intriguing headline: “The Myth
of Quality Time.” I was grabbed. The author, Frank Bruni, writes for the New
York Times and other outlets. I usually
read the stuff he writes because it is interesting. But this one seems particularly luring. I know how often people use the phrase,
“quality time.” I wanted to get his take
on it. I was not disappointed.
The essay begins with Bruni talking about his large
family---more than twenty---trying to find a beach house each summer for a
week. When he was younger, he confessed
that a week in this chaos was too much.
He would come a day or two late or, perhaps, sneak off a bit early. But he has learned that is a mistake. He says, “in recent years, I’ve shown up at
the start and stayed for the duration, and I’ve noticed a difference.” It is that difference that makes all the
difference!
He argues that there is no way to guess if someone will
share something important. He might miss something from a nephew, when a
sibling will open up or, even, when his dad will make an offhand comment that
is a game-changer. If you are not there,
you will only get it second-hand or miss out completely. As Bruni says, “There’s simply no real
substitute for physical presence. I love
that line. It is a powerful truth.
He develops his logic in a way that I feel convinced. He comments, “We delude ourselves when we say
otherwise, when we invoke and venerate ‘quality time,’ a shopworn phrase with a
debatable promise: that we can plan instances of extraordinary candor, plot
episodes of exquisite tenderness, engineer intimacy in an appointed hour.” I find it hard to argue with him on this
score. It provokes me to think about
myself.
He carries on and I can do no better than to share his
words. He adds, “…people tend not to
operate on cue. At least our moods and
emotions don’t. We reach out for help at
odd points; we bloom at unpredictable ones.
The surest way to see the brightest colors, or the darkest ones, is to
be watching and waiting and ready for them.”
Three words in this quotation jump out at me: watching, waiting and ready.
That sounds like the recipe for being present. I see the spiritual in these words. In fact, for years I have used words like
these to talk about being contemplative.
To be contemplative is not some sophisticated zone. To be contemplative is to live life
watchfully. It is linked to
awareness. It is the opposite of being
“zoned out.” It is a practical way of
being present.
I like how Bruni talks about it using the example of lovers,
but it really works for countless other relationships. He avows “that sustained proximity is the
best route to the soul of someone; that unscripted gestures at unexpected
junctures yield sweeter rewards…” That
quotation has given me a new way to think about being present. Being present is a form of “sustained proximity.” That certainly describes the physical. I also think it can describe the emotional
and the spiritual.
To be in a sustained proximate relationship with someone
enables me to be sensitive and being sensitive leads me to be more caring and,
when needed, even compassionate. And
being in this sustained proximate relationship with the Spirit of God will
allow for a more connected sense with the Holy One. And this more connected sense should lead to
deeper communion with that same God who nurtures each and every one of us.
Bruni has a simple, but profound, way of ending the
essay. He says these weeklong ventures
make him more likely to get the most out of what happens and not to miss
anything. It is because he is
present. Things happen and he is part of
those things simply because he is present.
As he says, “It’s because I was there.”
I love the profundity of that line: “because I was there.”
It makes me cringe when I think about important times I know
happened and I was absent---I was not there.
Sometimes it was for a good reason.
More often than not, it was for some stupid, maybe selfish reason that I
was not there. And I missed
something---sometimes something significant, sometimes something small,
sometimes something spiritual. But I
missed it. My spiritual vow is to be
able to say at least I was there.
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