Be Still

For as long as I could remember ‘til about five years ago I envied the girl who could juggle her blessedly hectic lifestyle of school, work, friends, family and play like she had been born with magical powers. All I wanted was to be able to successfully maintain just two of those.

Although now I might look like I have it “together” sometimes, most of the times it’s only by accident. It might be because I’m no longer forced to shop at a second-hand store. But I swear it’s just cause I was born looking like a preppy spoiled little blonde, when in fact I feel like my soul and intellect resembles a more frazzled, sleepy, neglected-looking nerd.

Most of the time growing up, I had more free time then I knew what to do with. Of course there were always sleepovers at friend’s houses, video games, hide-and-seek with my hoards of cousins, tea parties, and riding bikes or having water-balloon wars with my brothers.

But I wanted so badly to be super-involved with EVERYTHING, however my reality constantly reminded me that we couldn’t afford for me to participate in sports, field trips took money, hobbies took money, and our regular moves disconnected me from holding on to a great group of friends for too long.

Instead, when I was young, I would read until I got in trouble, seriously. My mom would come in to turn off my light at midnight and find me still reading. She would be so exasperated, because she knew she’d be dragging me out of bed in the morning. So she’d turn off my light, and close the door. I’d wait five minutes . . . and turn it back on to continue for a few more hours.

As desperately as I wanted a routine, a busy schedule that would keep me occupied all day, and friends that I could count on having for longer than a year, I realize that the time I spent alone and frustrated gave me so much more than I could’ve realized.

I spent gloriously irresponsible amounts of time reading, writing, and reflecting on everything under the sun. I established myself. I was such a better person then.

Maybe that’s why people keep so busy. They realize that if they slowed down they’d have to reckon with who they’ve become, and where they’re going. If I remember correctly, the little demon in C.S. Lewis’ Screwtape Letters didn’t even have to TRY and thwart the silly humans, as long as the humans were keeping shamefully busy- they did his job for him.

Or I’m sure there are those who’ve NEVER lacked a demanding schedule, and once they finally stop, they realize that they never had any goals to begin with- for the ideal person they want to become or what they want to accomplish and how (beyond getting through the day).

Just going with the flow can be a terrifyingly soul-stunting choice (or lack thereof). It’s easy for people to tell you who THEY want you to be. Who your parents, your friends, your teacher, your lover wants you to be. It’s scary when you have to determine who YOU want you to be.

Now that I have become this professional juggler of activities and relationships (whether I perform well at it or not) I’ve come to understand- the joke’s on me. I have turned into a clown that is juggling so many things I don’t know what’s what and who’s who. These once-coveted fillers of time have effectively robbed me of my identity, or at least my time to attempt to discover it.

You might think of Thoreau’s infamous escape from civilization as a mental instability or a social experiment. I think it’s heroic. After a clear view of both sides of the fence, I still find myself riding it. Despite my ever-increasing desire to regress back into that little introspective bookworm I started as, I am still drawn to interaction. It’s almost addicting- busyness.

Even if I try to turn off my phone and schedule a day off for myself, commanding myself in my FIRMEST of (mental) tones to read and journal- I don’t. I end up simply doing errands that I’d been neglecting. Frustrated with my seeming lack of control in my own life, I think “I just need to do it, I’ll get a campsite at the beach for a week without telling anybody, and just BE.”

Since the cool kids in the psychology department let Briggs-Meyers tell them who they are, I gave it a shot. I was 50 percent introvert, 50 percent extrovert . . . who DOES that? No wonder I’m so torn.

It might be unrealistic of me to expect that I could keep the identity I had come to know so well, without accounting for the future variable of constant interactions thrown in. Is it naïve to think that I could remain unwavering regardless of new experiences and relationships? Only a fool thinks they aren’t changed by the company they keep. If Gandhi ever chilled with Hitler, I guarantee he’d end up a hater.

But don’t they say that Character is what you do when no one is watching? Then why isn’t it that Identity is who you are when no one is around? I guess we never allow ourselves a chance to figure it out, to prove ourselves. Perhaps it's true that the real " duty is ... to achieve authenticity for oneself" (SARTRE).

There is something so inspiring about one’s solitude in nature that is completely irreplaceable. The fulfillment cannot be gotten from a completed To Do List, an attended party, or even a satisfied familial obligation. In this sense I envy a completely different group, what they’ve done and their ability to remove themselves from busyness, obligation, shallow ambition, and human interactions only to BE. Like Ansel Adams, John Krakauer, Thoreau, and the list goes on.

The journey through the desolate dessert of sin was a necessary evil for many. To simplify, to identify, to prioritize.

I assert that our unadulterated identity and peace comes from honest, intentional pursuit of active and committed thought and prayer in solitude. But more importantly we need to learn to BE . . . . still.

Excerpt

I walked into the room and everyone looked up. I smirked as I realized literally half the girls were wearing different variations of pink. I wonder if they’d planned it. Of course there was a small faction of “scene-sters.” But who are they kidding. With their incongruous style they sometimes seem even more desperate for attention than the preps, the only difference is they’re quieter.

I took my seat in the middle of the classroom. I know they’d expect someone like me to sit in the back, but a girl’s got to get the grade. There’s an undeniable bias teachers have against people who sit in the back. As long as they can see you’re paying attention or, in my case, making intermittent eye-contact, you’re ensured a better grade.

I threw my bag on the floor. It was a rough, black book bag I used as a laptop bag. Pretty manly, but it had been free. I slumped into my chair and took out my folder. I’d have to look especially interested today to make up for my arrival.

It’s not that I came in late. I just came in later. The professor had gotten so used to the ruling coterie’s habit of arriving ridiculously early, that he’d taken to starting class ten minutes in advance. Ugh, just like them- inveterate suck ups. I suppose I’d become notorious for my (apparently mortifying) practice of arriving on time.

I zoned out as some 19 year old boy spouted erroneous theologies he’d no doubt been hand fed by his parents or youth group. I’m sure he’d never questioned them. I almost felt bad for him as I pictured his certain disillusionment when he finally realizes the world isn’t rainbows and candy canes. I suppose we were all like that at one point. Some of us just pop the bubble sooner than others . . . or someone pops it for us.