The Violent Enterprise of Busyness

How Solitude proves to be a Jealous Lover to Busy Souls

Photo by Dan Freeman on Unsplash

What I have written here is my truth. For the past few weeks, I’ve done too much travelling; seen far too many people; had too many conversations and all of it together has all added up to a feeling of being unfaithful—unfaithful to my own heart; unfaithful to what I know to be true; unfaithful to how I know I am to be; unfaithful to all the ways I know to live in a violent and busy world.

In short, it is as if I’ve had an affair. I’ve counseled many in the wayward ways of the heart in marriage. But, my affair is not in marriage. It is an affair in my soul.

The Chinese define the English word, “busyness” as the ‘annihilation of the soul’--a fragmenting of what is most important in one’s self. And in these past few weeks I’ve been running shallow, not deep; busy but not satisfied; drinking from broken cisterns. I’ve felt disjointed; discombobulated and discomfort. To that I might I add—I knew better as well. I knew I was over my limit; running on empty and doing way too much.

Can you relate?

Over the course of my life, I’ve come to love solitude. I’ve found such soul satisfaction and as Lord Byron, the English poet once said, “Oh Solitude, in you, I am least alone.” I have come to know the truth of Byron’s words.

Busyness has a subversive violence to it. We think we can ride the wave of all the thrills and feels of abundant activity but in the end, we are plummeted down, down, down into a sick sense of self-preoccupation and selfishness. It’s unfulfilling to be so busy that we can not stop; and for not stopping, we lose our way and almost feel like we have lost our life.

Wayne Mueller has written: “A "successful" life has become a violent enterprise. We make war on our own bodies, pushing them beyond their limits; war on our children, because we cannot find enough time to be with them when they are hurt and afraid and need our company; war on our spirit, because we are too preoccupied to listen to the quiet voices that seek to nourish and refresh us; war on our communities, because we are fearfully protecting what we have, and do not feel safe enough to be kind and generous; war on the earth, because we cannot take the time to place our feet on the ground and allow it to feed us, to taste its blessings and give thanks.”

The violent enterprise of busyness has a high cost associated with it.

The cost of busyness is soul annihilation.

I am convinced of this—if we do not take time for solitude, a sickness such as cancer; an event such as a divorce; an interruption to our schedules such as an accident or an uninvited guest will force us to experience a kind of solitude that we never wanted. Being alone is not solitude—far from it. Being alone is far different from being in solitude. To begin with, to be in solitude is to be with one’s self; one’s God and one’s own heart—such a mighty trinity is ours when we move from being alone to being in solitude.

One of the deepest and most satisfying parts of my vocation has been to coach individuals in the soul gymnastics of solitude and my teacher in all of this was Henri Nouwen and Dallas Willard. I am the fortunate one to have them as my coaches. Being a witness to those human beings who sought the deeper way to live and the deeper way to love continues to bring such joy in this season of my life. No wonder we read about the very life of Jesus being such an advocate for solitude when we are told by a medical doctor that “Jesus often withdrew to lonely places (Luke 5:16).

“Often” means often. So, so many people say that they want to ‘be like’ Jesus. Well, to be like Jesus means simply this: practice solitude.

For me, it takes time to re-enter my rhythms and the life that satisfies me. I can’t just enter a room called solitude and my showing up is enough. It’s a slow reacquainting with my deep miss; my deepest joy and my soul feeling at One with myself and with God.

This poem is my lament; my soul adjustment—my confession and above all—my heart’s desire to return to what I know.

That’s what I tried to confess in my poem. This is a poem of confession. This is a love poem. This is a way of being naked and unashamed.

I don’t expect you to understand this poem. It’s probably too much. Maybe I’ve gotten too naked on Substack. You can decide.

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