Grandpa Chard ... yup, he is that cool.
One hot summer day when I was eight years old I stole a
bike. The bike belonged to my
little brother Mario and so I'm pretty sure I didn't feel that bad about it –
basically it was my bike too. We lived on a dead end street in the country,
next door to my grandparents; in between our homes was an area of trees and
bushes that had been christened the "Ewok Place" due to our undying
love for all things Star Wars. It was a magical place where anything could
happen - anything including angelic little me deciding that teasing my brother
by taking his bike as he screamed and ran behind me calling for me to stop was
a fun way to spend an afternoon.
I stole that bike like a champ as I pumped my way up and out
of the Ewok Place, hitting the gravel in front of my grandparent's house, and
tasting victory as his little cries of "Mia stop! Give it back!" grew
fainter in my ears … Victory!
Victory - that is until I heard the loud, deep voice of my
Grandpa call out, "Mia! Mia! Stop and give Mario back his bike!" I
froze and was instantly terrified as I immediately dug my heels into the
gravel, slowing myself to a stop. Mario caught up to me as I climbed off the
bike, grabbing the bike back from me with a triumphant smile as grandpa called
for me to come over to the porch where he has been sitting in his favorite
brown and beige rocking chair.
I was scared to go over, not because of my grandpa but
because of always hating when I got in trouble. My grandpa was a loving and
kind man but sometimes could come across a little gruff and I wondered how much
trouble I would be in. As I reached the stairs with my held hanging down he
said, with his voice quieter and full of love, "Don't tease your brother
like that, you know better – now go get us a couple of cokes and sit with
me."
I looked up to him smiling at me and went inside to find my
way to the kitchen of a house that was just as much my home as the one next
door was. In the fridge sat the coveted glass bottles of Coke, grandpa was old
school and always had to have Coke from a glass bottle. I popped open the
drinks with the bottle opener that was hanging from the wall and was off to the
porch. There we sat, he and I, in his favorite brown and beige rockers, the
same rockers that not too many years before sat he and Grandma before she
passed away. Not much was aid, we just sat and rocked and watched the world
around us.
That memory is one of my only two memories that I have of my
grandpa and I alone, just the two of us, and I treasure it – I treasure the
glimpse it gives me into my personality, I treasure how perfect a moment it was
as he stopped my getaway, I treasure the love he offered me and the way I can
feel the cold coke in my hand and hear the pop and hiss of the drink as I open
the old bottle every time the memory comes back to me – but most of all I
treasure the time he gave me, that he wasn't too busy to give me that time.
Busy.
That word. I hate that word.
Lately, every time I hear that word from someone or I use it
myself I think of this memory; I think of my grandpa, on the porch, in his
rocking chair. I wonder what he was thinking about – his wife passing away, his
children and grandchildren, the way things had changed since he was younger,
his own health issues and pains … I
think of this memory and wonder if he would still take that kind of time today
– to sit, to think, to be.
It's interesting what we chose to notice. I remember a time
when using the word busy was said with a twinge of regret, as if the speaker
realized the unhealthiness of being busy and was wanting to get back to a more
even pace of life. Now, however, I've begun to notice that word said with
pride, said with a conviction that busy is how life should be led; the question
is asked, "How are you?" or "How have you been?" and
answers come back like Keeping busy -
Super busy but good – Oh, you know me, always busy – Good … busy and good, etc.
Life is fast paced these days and it seems like everywhere
you go we are busy human beings; I don't believe being busy itself is
necessarily a bad thing. There will be times in our lives when we will be busy,
there will be a lot going on. I believe the problem comes when being busy
becomes a chronic way of living, when we begin to take pride in our busyness
and seek to add more to our lives so we can come out the winner in the
whom-has-the-most-going-on game. There have been times in my life where I have
lied about being busy because I thought that not being busy meant I was less
than other people, that I was boring or lazy.
I can remember distinct conversations where I have been
honest about not being busy and in return I hear, "You are so lucky that
you don’t have to be busy. I can't even imagine what that would be like, to do
NOTHING … how lucky for you! My life is never like that, between my work, and
family, and friends, and church callings – always busy!" I smile, and we
both laugh, and inside I'm thinking, ummm … I just told you I work, and have
been going for walks, and spending time with my family – not sure how that's
nothing, but okay . . .
There have been other times when I have been busy, when I
feel like for weeks all I do is run from one thing to another, always wondering
if I'm forgetting something else, wondering if I'm even doing half of the
things I'm doing like I should be doing them, wondering when things will slow
down but also feeling pride that I am busy and answering those who ask how I am
with conviction that I am busy and good – but am I good? I know I'm busy but
does that equal good, does busy equal better?
I'm starting to think it doesn't. I'm starting to look back
over the last few weeks of my life and those other times in my life where I
haven't been busy and what not being busy has allowed me to do – I've had
really good conversations with friends, I've been able to observe the needs of
others quicker, I've been able to observe others period, I've been able to try
and realign myself spiritually. I don't necessarily think busy has everything
to do with how many events or things with which I am involved. I believe it can
become a state of mind, a way to distract myself from life – from feeling the
good and the bad that life brings because feeling things is sometimes too hard.
I'd rather be busy than have to look at the ways in which I
could improve, I'd rather say I'm busy than admit to someone that my feelings
of anxiety sometimes keep me from engaging with people, I'd rather say I'm busy
than allow myself to admit that yesterday my busy was twelve hours of Netflix
and a jar of trader Joes cookies and cream, I'd rather say I'm busy than to
wonder if my not being busy does mean my life isn't as valuable as the lives of
others … I'd rather be busy …
But no, that isn't right. I don't want to be busy, I want to
be engaged (in more ways than one, haha jk ;) ). I want to be engaged in the
moments of life not just fill my life with things that make me seem busy but
that are hollow. I want to acknowledge that a lot going on in my life is good
but so are the times when not much is going on. I want to be able to enjoy
small moments and let them be enough.
I want to be able to sit on a porch, in rocking chairs, with
another person and enjoy a coke in silence . . . all the while knowing . . .
that's as busy as I need to be sometimes . . .
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