Why Am I Constantly in Motion?
How a Mile Marker Marks the State of My Soul
By Nancy Ortberg
At the edge of the magnificent Monterey Peninsula in California is the winding and iconic 17-Mile Drive that takes you through some of the most spectacular scenery on Planet Earth. It’s not far from the place where Wallace Stegner wrote in his book Where the Bluebird Sings to the Lemonade Springs, “You can see the last sunset on the continent.” Each mile has a different marker that ranges from a breathtaking view to an historic site. Marker #4 has always captivated me. It’s called The Restless Sea.
Here the sea is always churning, the swells and waves rolling back over each other in a seemingly nonstop motion. It’s beautiful to look at, almost hypnotic. Interestingly, when you look to the beach at the left and the right of Marker #4 it is not so. The sea is often calm and placid there. But here? It’s always roiling, never quiet. Why?
In this one particular location there are submerged rocks, lying in such a way that they cause the water moving towards the beach and the currents that reside there, to be displaced up, to the side and over each other. The bathymetry, the underwater topography invisible to those standing at the shore, makes it impossible for the water to be still. What is unseen causes what is seen to be in constant motion. And so it is with me…
Underground, in the hidden and often unconscious recesses of my body, mind, and soul, are submerged rocks. Some of them are things that happened in my childhood, many of which I have compartmentalized or pushed to the side of my awareness. Others are painful situations and relationships that I’d rather not face. All of them would fall into the category of “I’d really rather NOT be dwelling on these.”
But over time I notice my restlessness, my need to keep moving, keep busy—mostly with good things—in order to keep myself from connecting motion with my resistance to face what’s deep down in my life. I don’t call it anxiety; that’s for other people that have serious problems. No, if any acknowledgement arises, it is named multi-tasking or taking on too much or high productivity. But at the end of the day (sometimes quite literally), if a moment of peace sneaks in, I realize that there is something way down that I seriously want to avoid. Still, I begin another day again with the busy, with whatever will distract me from that which I most want to avoid and most need to face.
Henri Nouwen was a well-known Dutch Catholic priest whose career took him from teaching at Yale and Harvard to serving among the most developmentally disabled people in the community of L’Arche in Canada. In his book Journey to Daybreak, he argues that “too often we will do anything possible to avoid the confrontation that comes with the experience of being alone.” He reminds us that our culture has become expert in the avoidance of pain, so much so that panic often arises when there is nothing left to distract us. We drown and scatter our senses so that we don’t have to pay attention to what’s causing it all.
The rocks are there, submerged, deep enough to ignore until they’re not. But there is another way.
I resist—intensely—the feelings of anxiety: the spinning mind, the tight gut and/or the racing heart (thank you Steve Cuss Managing Leadership Anxiety). But, sometimes instead of resisting, I stop. I don’t fight it or get swept away in it. I let it be. I sit still, for as long as I can manage—sometimes 60 seconds, sometimes 10 minutes, occasionally a bit longer—and let myself just notice the anxiety, the thoughts, all of it. I watch with a kind of detached curiosity; I remind myself that I “don’t have to believe everything I think.” I add to that stillness and breaths. Slow breaths. Inhale to the count of 5 seconds, hold for 3, exhale for 6. And sometimes when that math eludes me, I just remember to breathe in and out SLOWLY.
I welcome the churn, the anxiety, the perpetual agitation, whatever name you want to give it. The churn is trying to tell me something about the rocks buried deep below, the pain, broken relationships, disappointments of life not turning out the way I thought it would. At times I let it be okay, but 60 seconds is all I allow. Paying attention to our interiority is not something that comes easily.
Years ago, I heard these words from Dallas Willard, Professor of Philosophy at USC, “You must ruthlessly eliminate hurry.” Seriously! I was young when I first heard them and, let’s just say, they sounded less than profound. Fast forward nearly thirty years and the truth in those five words is inescapable. Solitude, a slow pace, quiet and reflection—not necessarily things I gravitate towards naturally—are my hope. I needed these things far more than I knew I did.
This led me to read stories of people in desperate situations, who have found their way through anxiety to the calm and quiet soul I so desperately wanted. Etty Hillesum in A Transformed Life has become a bit of a ‘true North’ to me in recent months. Her ability to find that quiet and joyful inner space with God, all while facing Auschwitz, is nothing short of life-altering. There is another way than being in ceaseless motion.
No wonder I was drawn to Marker #4. I knew I was looking in a mirror.