I met my late husband, Robin, on a quiet day at an event led by him entitled “The Poet’s Eye”. It was about seeing life the way the poet or artist does – without preconceptions, categories or judgment – open to perceiving the divine touch at work within time. Robin opened the day with the words “All time is God’s time.”
Robin’s memory of me on that day of our first encounter was of my leaning forward, eager to learn, sitting on the edge of my seat. Once we were married, the characteristic indicator that I was home from work was, apparently, the sound of my footsteps bounding up the stairs to greet him. These examples typify my approach to time. I like to get things done, and quickly.
Robin, on the other hand, was an adagio man. Ours was a marriage of the hare to the tortoise: He ate slowly – chewing every mouthful fully, resting the spoon on the plate between mouthfuls. He walked slowly. He spoke slowly. He listened. He took time to connect with people, including staff at the supermarket checkout, often oblivious of the person fuming and pounding in the queue behind. He tended to have one big project on at a time, and he took time to do little things with a lot of care.
He actively created space within his day. If he was seeing somebody socially he would make time before and after to prepare, savour and reflect. He allowed time for ideas, intuitions and inspirations to filter up into his consciousness, to listen to them, until they formed a gestalt – thus clarifying a course of action, a piece of writing, a decision.
His day was framed by a rhythm of prayer, two daily walks, time at the desk; writing, a siesta, a slow evening meal. These routine elements ate up quite a lot of the clock-time available, and yet he got a remarkable amount done. I suppose because nothing was rushed he made fewer mistakes, made better decisions and the projects he embarked upon bore fruit.
John 12:24 tells us that unless a grain of wheat falls to the ground and dies it remains but a single grain. But if it dies it bears much fruit. The challenge for me, having lost Robin, is to begin to incarnate his best qualities in my own life. Not least among these is his slow and spacious pace of life.
I have spent the last months editing, posthumously, his life’s work, The Virgin Eye: Towards a Contemplative View of Life. Recently the main task has been to write out invitations to the book launch. As I began this work, I did so slowly, writing out a message to each person, and relishing connecting with them as I did so. But as the day wore on, I became agitated with the desire to get through everyone in the address book. I had switched from fully inhabiting and enjoying the process to a state of goal orientation.
Robin points out in the book how much of our rushing is fuelled by craving: we want an answer, a bit of information, assistance, an object, a person, a solution, advice, food, or caffeine, and we want it now. This inhibits our capacity to be in the moment, receptive to whatever that moment or that person has to offer. We are stuck in a mode of getting which obstructs alternative modes of giving, being, or receiving the unexpected.
During the course of a day there are any number of encounters with people who have been sent to us by God for a reason, awaiting our response, and our noticing. People are searching for meaning, understanding, empathy, warmth, connection. Robin challenges us: “How many of these potential pastoral moments have I already missed so far today?”
Ironically, being content simply to be can be far more productive than striving and straining to complete tasks. It was in chatting to a friend and then switching off and going for a walk that the exact shape for an event I was planning suddenly fell into place with crystalline clarity. As Robin writes: “Archimedes found the principles of hydrostatics while lolling in his bath. Einstein told colleagues that he got some of his best ideas while shaving… Times such as these – when the mind is relaxed, hovering, receptive and responsive – give space for intuition and deep wisdom to arise.”
When it comes to decisions, it is only when we slow down that we have space to listen, and give God time to respond. A woman I met recently reminded me, ‘‘If you’ve asked God whether he wants you to do something or not, and you’ve not heard back, don’t do it. Wait!” So often we aren’t yet clear but plough ahead anyway.
The programme advocated in The Virgin Eye is to courageously face up to “the insecurity that is fuelling our vain panting after ever more shallow forms of satisfaction”. Next, we need a habit of pausing, of taking “Sabbath moments” throughout the day, so as to cultivate a sacramental way of seeing. Only by slowing down, not “rushing our fences”, can we hope to perceive God’s presence at work within and around us, and give praise.
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