Down time

By TAD BARTIMUS

Nobody looks out the window anymore. Not at home, at the office, in the car, on the airplane. Too busy. Too much to do. Too behind. Always behind. Work's so important we can't slow down, not even while we're suspended in time and space, traveling from one over-committed day to another.

I was flying east to west, one ocean to another, when I looked up from my endless task and there was ... America. It was the beauty that got me, the unbelievable billowing of clouds, vast wheat circles, rivers braiding back on themselves, mountains crowned with points so sharp a human surely couldn't stand on top. I hadn't noticed. Not for years.

Somewhere over Utah I had a come-to-Jesus meeting with my own ego. I was a grownup, I could level with myself. Had I forgotten the word "tomorrow?"

Somewhere between Kansas City and Denver the wonder came back, the miracle of it. This long cigar tube was no longer just an extension of a Lego office that plugs in anywhere; I was no longer a workaholic commuter hopelessly overwhelmed by a nutso schedule of my own making.

I looked around my seat; laptops glowed in all directions, bodies contorted over Excel, Word, Prodigy, Quicken. Not even the engines' roar could disguise the clicks and whirs of the plastic brains attached to us like manacles to prisoners.

I looked out the window again, then closed my eyes and ... did nothing. Let my mind go. From time to time I revisited the sky, watched it turn from cerulean to magenta to black. Lost myself inside my own head, daydreamed, napped. Composed a couplet, forgot it. Wrote to a friend without a pen. Conjured up the face of a man I love, then let it drift away.

Sitting there, with a frail piece of metal between my feet and the Rockies, I realized the anonymity of an airplane window seat is akin to that of a confessional without a priest; it's a great place to think. My next thought was; I need to do more of this. In all my haste, where am I rushing to? What am I rushing for. The umbilical cords of modern life are cell phones, pagers, computers with modems. They attach us to boss, spouse, children, dry cleaner, client. But lately my lifelines have been strangling me. Everywhere I go there's Muzak-voice mail-loop tape-boom box-"you've got mail" competition for the sound of my own inner voice. When was the last time I'd just sat still, not computing, writing, talking, eating, angsting? I couldn't remember.

Everybody I know asks themselves how their lives got so crazy, what they can do to slow themselves down. It's not that we don't intellectually know the answer. It's simple. But we don't change, won't change, because (pick one or more): 1) there's too much at stake; 2) too many people are depending on me; 3) the consequences are too dire, and (my personal favorite) 4) what I do is too important.

Somewhere over Utah I had a come-to-Jesus meeting with my own ego. I was a grownup, I could level with myself. Had I forgotten the word "tomorrow?" As in, "It can wait until tomorrow." Didn't Scarlett O'Hara teach me anything? Being frantic feels inhuman. When I grew up I knew I didn't want to be like Beaver's mother; now I realize I don't want to be R2D2, either.

I need time to think, to reflect, to let the world's most sophisticated computer – the one attached to my own neck – select, collate and prioritize what's really important. Sitting quietly, just looking out the window, the volume went down. So did my heart rate. Now I'm going to try it on the ground.

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