The Loss of Leisure

We were prepared to discuss the writings of Raymond Carver. It was the topic of the month – a
departure for the group. We are far more comfortable debating politics and economics. But this month
the presenter pushed us out of our comfort zone. He sent a short story and some poems by Carver and
invited us to read them, or not, but come prepared to talk about Carver.

The way that usually works in this group is that we pick a topic, spend the first 10 minutes nodding to
that topic, then collectively, and subconsciously, buckle our seat belts and enjoy the ride as we launch
into a wild safari of free association and tangential thinking, spending time on things that seem to
matter to us – at least that night. Then we land, in a different place, and we are all better for having
been there that night. Somehow. It’s a fascinating process.

But the selection of Carver presented an interesting twist. We were invited to do something that many
in the group have forgotten how to do. In all the business of our lives, we have forgotten the art of
leisure. Between going to work and shuttling the kids to this practice or that rehearsal and keeping up
with social media and balancing the checkbook and walking the dog and spending time with friends and
remodeling the house and worrying about our parents and keeping up appearances and attending to our
marriages and going to the gymn or yoga and planning vacation and cutting the grass and, well, all the
hundreds of other things that compete for our attention, we have lost the ability to sit quietly and do
something, simply for the value of doing it, not for what it will accomplish. It’s the art of leisure.
Somewhere along the way, we seem to have lost it. Generations before us understood its value, but we
have somehow misplaced it in the clutter of our lives.

When was the last time you set aside 30 minutes, or 10, for that matter, just to read a poem, or a novel,
or listen to a symphony, with no intention of accomplishing anything other than the pleasure of reading,
or listening? And if you did take the time to do that, was it free of guilt? Or did you find yourself thinking
of the ten other things that you could, or should, be doing? And if guilt-free, was it something you did
simply because you wanted to do it, or did you feel like it was something you should be doing? Like
taking medicine or cleaning the gutters?

There was a day, I have heard it described, when people would routinely “retire to the study, or the
parlor” simply to sit and read, or listen, or think, or relax. It was an expected, and normal, and
important, part of the rhythm of the day. I don’t hear that so much anymore. My friends don’t describe
that as part of their day. I certainly don’t find it easily in my household. There’s the occasional walk with
your spouse, or conversation with neighbors over the fence. But as a matter of routine, we have, to a
large extent, lost that sense of leisure that once fed the hearts, minds and souls of previous generations.

The argument is always time. There is no time in the day for leisure. There is always more to do. At best,
we hope to capture some leisure on weekends. But for many, that “leisure” is driven by a sense of duty,
or guilt, or anxiety over what is not being done. And so we press forward, many of us, determined to
make an extra dollar, clean another room, send another e-mail, check another website, pull another
weed. The list is endless – things we could be doing – should be doing – but the one thing that typically
slips to the bottom of the list may well be one that should stand near the top. “Leisure: freedom from
the demands of work or duty.”

Leisure. Freedom. Hmmm. Our country was established on a foundation of freedom, but we, to a large
extent, have abdicated that very freedom to duty and importance and appearance and expectation and
status. We are prisoners of our own success – or lust for success. Is it any wonder that healthcare has
become one of the most significant drivers of our economy? I don’t know the science behind it, but I
wonder what would happen to the overall health of our nation, if every adult recovered and practiced
an honest and vibrant sense of leisure. I suspect the results would be staggering. Blood pressure would
have to go down. Heart disease would be less prevalent. Our immune systems would have an
opportunity to recharge. Our bodies would find new resources to battle infection and disease.

If it were only so simple.

The fact of the matter is that our technology may have outpaced our evolution. Anthropologically
speaking, we may very well be prisoners of our own success – or at least of our own technological
advances. We may have more capabilities than we are emotionally or psychologically or physically
prepared to handle. Like kids in a candy store, we don’t know when enough is enough. We don’t know
when, or how, to stop. And since it is available, since we can call anyone, at anytime, since we can
access information instantaneously, why shouldn’t we? Why wouldn’t we?

It is one of the most challenging battlefronts of personal well-being in the 21 st century – carving out time
simply to sit and enjoy and recharge – setting aside the distractions – refusing to pick up the I-phone or
Blackberry – pushing away the anxiety over what is not being done – and enjoying the thought, or the
sounds, of the present moment.

It’s almost laughable to suggest it. Except that I know it to be true. And I was reminded of the truth of it
that night, when we gathered to discuss the writings of Raymond Carver. For 2 hours, a group of men
suspended responsibility, set aside distraction, and engaged in honest conversation about poetry and
prose – and a few other wandering topics, of course. And to a man, we came away refreshed, renewed,
and somehow changed for the better.