Theodore Roethke — Being, not doing

I must confess that being is very difficult for me. For years I have been caught up in the culture of doing — setting goals and working to achieve those goals. I find it very difficult to sit and just be. I must at the very least doodle. If I go on vacation, it often takes me a week to relax and forget my day job. But I still feel I must be doing something. Write. Draw. Read. Produce something of value. Rarely can I just be.  I simply cannot sit and doing nothing.  My thoughts continue to flow.

How about you? Are you caught up in the culture of doing or have you learned like Roethke to enjoy just being?

Here is my favorite Theodore Roethke poem. I love the first three lines. This is a poem to be read out loud. Listen to the interaction of sounds.

The Waking

I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.
I feel my fate in what I cannot fear.
I learn by going where I have to go.

We think by feeling. What is there to know?
I hear my being dance from ear to ear.
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.

Of those so close beside me, which are you?
God bless the Ground! I shall walk softly there,
And learn by going where I have to go.

Light takes the Tree; but who can tell us how?
The lowly worm climbs up a winding stair;
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.

Great Nature has another thing to do
To you and me, so take the lively air,
And, lovely, learn by going where to go.

This shaking keeps me steady. I should know.
What falls away is always. And is near.
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.

I learn by going where I have to go.

Theodore Roethke

Many of us are afraid of silence. We have a need to fill the the air waves with noise — television, radio, music. And for those living in cities there are the sounds of cars, trucks, sirens, airplanes and neighbors fighting. We don't feel comfortable when the conversation dies and we are left with silence.  We rush to fill the void. We experience silence as emptiness. 

I enjoy external silence because it allows me to think. Silence allows me to explore the backroads of my mind. Silence releases my creativity. But I rarely experience internal silence. Even when I sleep my mind is filled with dreams.  My thoughts are always bubbling to the surface, brandishing their weapons. 

When I teach people to speak in public, I talk to them about the importance of silence — of learning the pregnant pause, of giving your audience the time to catch up with your words. Storytellers understand the power of silence. We must learn to appreciate silence, to enjoy its many flavors. Sometimes we can learn more from silence than the words spoken or written.

Can you hear the silence when you are painting? Do you listen to the silences between the words that you write?