To Brake or Break

We live in a world that worships movement, that does not enjoy ceasing.

But I cannot help but think at this time of year that wants everything to slow, that begs my bones to brake—to take my time getting to where I am going:

If I do not do this, I very well may break. Into pieces. Irreparably and unforgivingly. I may soon start to disintegrate, losing what little wholeness I had left.

This is the real risk of constant motion, of continual so-called progress. Will we stop our rushing from one thing to the next and then another and more after that?

I have my cynicisms. It seems only the grave will halt some stubborn souls. And I’d prefer to not be one of them.

Did you know Thoreau considered it a waste when he did not spend at least four, if not six or seven, sometimes even eight, hours a day walking in open fields?

What a way to live.

What a way to face the inevitability of death: Not in a chair, pushing out one more email before Christmas but ambling down some vacant path, staring up in wonder, contemplating higher things.

And so, now, as we enter our shared slumber together,

as the days get ever darker,

will we be led to true rest, one that allows adequate reflection?

Or will we find excuse to keep going?

Will we discontinue our labor?

Not so that we may push harder later but so we can remember we are alive?

Perhaps

maybe

even

why?

I want to use this gift of being well. I want to remember what breath in lungs is for—while I still have it.

Not more.

But truer, better, deeper.

Now.

And this, dear friend, is where I bid you adieu until next year.