I pick up two of the littlest kids from school and load them on my bicycle—one standing over the back wheel and the other perched in front of me on the handlebars—and we start the shaky ride back home. We giggle over the bumps and shriek down the hills, their arms wound tightly around me the whole time.
Near the field by the house, they beg me to stop, and we search the side of the road for discarded pieces of raw sugar cane. As they happily wander about, I hear myself impatiently hurrying them along… and then I think, why?
What am I always so desperate to rush off to? Why shouldn’t I take my time, and why not examine the treasures left behind by others?
I read this article last year, when I was still working around the clock and my students always mocked my repeated urging of “C’mon, c’mon! Let’s go!”
I don’t think I really understood it until now, though.
When we finally get home, I spend an hour hacking away at sugar cane to get to the juicy bits in the middle and there is nothing else I would have rather been doing.
“I will not say, “We don’t have time for this.” Because that is basically saying, “We don’t have time to live.””