Craving the Unhurried

A bath. Some French. Books, books, books. Sometimes a walk or a friendly phone call. That's my Sabbath—a deliberate decision for the day to contain not one ounce of hurry.

Perhaps this is why, for now, I have been taking a sabbatical from attending church. Because... always, *always,* the Sunday-out-the-door routine has been surrounded with a terrible sense of rush and tumble, to the point of absolute irritation. It has represented more work and pressure after a whole week of work.

It occurred to me within the past few months that I have been craving unhurriedness—a day I can look forward to, once a week, that truly slows. And so, I've come to a new kind of Sabbath: quiet at home.

To this, I think about what David Whyte says in The Heart Aroused: Poetry and the Preservation of the Soul in Corporate America:

"Hurrying from one work station to another, we hope the hurrying itself can grant us the importance we seek. Slowing for a moment, we might open up the emptiness at the center..."

I have been slowing on the Sabbath. I am not saying everyone should slow in the same way I am doing it; life has its seasons. In the slowing, I have been holding the emptiness as if it was a palpable thing I could turn in my hands. It is quiet, and I am in no hurry to ask it to speak.

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