The large campus takes at least twenty minutes to cross, depending on from where you’re coming or going. Dad and I went and picked up a bicycle to reduce travel time between classes. I rode it faithfully on the long trips and the occasional running-late-morning, but found it more agreeable to walk.

Walking allowed for seeing people, spontaneous conversation, wondering at wise old trees hanging over the lawn. I left earlier to take it slow. It gave me time to think. I met God and saw His face in strangers. I reveled.

A few years ago, I heard a story about Brother Lawrence, a French monk who lived in the 17^th Century. He once saw God in a barren tree.

During that winter, upon seeing a tree stripped of its leaves and considering that, within a little time, the leaves would be renewed and, after that, the flowers and fruit appear; Brother Lawrence received a high view of the providence and power of God which has never since been effaced from his soul. This view had perfectly set him free from the world and kindled in him such a love for God, that he could not tell whether it had increased in the forty years that he had lived since.*

I had my own barren-tree moments in those days of walking so much, though less profound. Did Brother Lawrence have an innate ability to better perceive profound wonders in the mundane than I did? Perhaps that’s why he became a monk.

However small my epiphanies it was a fruitful time, walking. It’s the last time I remember successfully slowing down as a way of life, opening my eyes and ears to see and hear, touch and smell. I have a hunch that the correlation between the two isn’t slight.

I imagine that these experiences are what we all look back to when thinking about years gone by—simpler times, less responsibility, openness of schedule and heart to our whims and fancies. For me, it meant creativity filled my life like gales of wind through the open window of a small house. I had time to truly listen to people. I felt and prayed more.

Today I feel and pray less. I have little time to truly listen to people. Those gales of creativity have slackened to a sigh, most days. Where my focus was more singular and undivided, it is now pulled by a host of expectations, responsibilities and wants. Many of these are good and necessary. But I wonder if there’s a way to revive what I found those many years ago, right where I am—where stories and songs and poems come in plenty, and friendship stands on equal ground to the greatest of honey-dos, goals and paychecks. Is that too idealistic? Is it possible to lead a full life without drowning in busyness?

My experiences tell me busyness can suffocate the depth and life right out of you. It will numb you. It will make it harder to pray–to see God in each other’s faces, in the gentle sway of trees. We need space mentally, spiritually—sometimes physically. We need to make time. We need to find ways to start walking.

I do.

*Excerpt from The Practice of the Presence of God, “First Conversation.”