In the summer of 1999 my husband discovered that his business partner had embezzled hundreds of thousands of dollars of company money and, worse, had double collateralized on a significant business loan and line of credit in my husband’s name. As the whole sordid mess came to light and the bank demanded immediate repayment of the loan, we suddenly found ourselves on the brink of losing everything—my husband’s business, his good reputation, our income, our home. And as wave after wave of bad news hit us, I cried into my pillow night after night and worried incessantly about our future.
But by day I went into hyper drive. I cleaned every room in our house; organized every single drawer; washed cupboards, windows, walls, and floors. I archived all of our family photos and started scrapbooks for each of my children. I threw myself into a couple of major PTA projects and served in not one but two busy church callings. And yes, I eventually landed myself in a clinical depression.
This pattern wasn’t new for me. Years ago when I was a graduate student, I spent one terrible summer while my parents’ marriage unraveled rushing from one activity to the next, keeping myself so busy with school and work and dates and friends that I only came home to my apartment to sleep. I never let myself be alone, never stopped long enough to think—because then the fear would rush back in. And I seem to repeat this pattern during every life crisis. I suppose it has something to do with avoidance—I hurtle through my days in an effort to outrun my fears. It also has something to do with control: when I’m surrounded by chaos, I need to be in command of what little I can. We may lose our house, my thinking goes, but by golly, my underwear drawer will be tidy.
So you can imagine my interest as I listened to President Uchtdorf’s recent Conference talk, “Of Things that Matter Most.” “When stress levels rise, when distress appears, when tragedy strikes,” President Uchtdorf said, “too often we attempt to keep up the same frantic pace or even accelerate, thinking somehow that the more rushed our pace, the better off we’ll be.” Yep, that’s me. In fact, while President Uchtdorf was giving his talk, I believe I was in the kitchen, wiping down the counters after breakfast and mentally adding items to my grocery list. President Uchtdorf went on to say, “We would do well to slow down a little, proceed at the optimum speed for our circumstances, focus on the significant, lift up our eyes, and truly see the things that matter most.”
Slow down. Simplify. Focus on the significant. See the things that matter most. His words flooded my thirsty soul. This past year or so I’ve been going into overdrive again; it’s been a year of change and turmoil, of worry and grief. I find myself rushing through my days again with a heavy heart, preoccupied and harried, and lying awake at night, afraid.
So I’m trying to slow my pace. I’m savoring these intoxicating crisp fall mornings when I walk my dog, leaves crunching under my feet, when I can lose myself in swaths of crimson and gold and green. Last Saturday I took my daughter to the pumpkin patch and we brought home a trunk load of round, fat pumpkins; last night my husband, children, and I carved them into jack-o-lanterns and roasted pumpkin seeds until they sizzled and popped. And a week ago I sat in the temple with my husband and my newly endowed son, soaking up stillness and comfort and peace.
I have a long way to go, I admit—and I doubt I’ll ever fully relinquish my need to accelerate when I’m stressed. But today I’m going to slow down. I’m going to rest, catch my breath, and be still.
How do you react to stress? Do you slow down or speed up? What helps you deal with stress? How can we counter our fast-paced culture and learn to slow down?
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