Of Black Bears and White-hot Imperatives

I was reading about black bears the other day. You know, I think bears are on to something: eat all you can summer and fall; sleep through the winter; wake up skinny. What could be wrong with that picture? The only possible downside is that you miss Christmas.

I was also reading (actually listening to a tape) about becoming more organized. One thing that struck me was the principle of the "white-hot imperative.’’ The speaker told how his daughter loved to practice music. It was her greatest joy. And when she left doing it, her grades fell. When she went back to pursuing the thing that made her happy, other parts of her life improved.

The speaker asked what white-hot imperatives the audience had. He paused to let us think. Someone said handball; someone said painting. I desperately tried to think of some activity that was sure to fulfill my need to create or play. Sadly, I could not think of anything I really like to do in the time the speaker allowed for thinking.

What do you really like to do? Do you do it? Often? I am convinced that the old adage "All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy" is correct. I am not, of course, calling for a frivolous lifestyle (every New England, Huguenot, Pennsylvania, and Scots ancestor would turn in his grave). I am, however, asking you as I asked myself—have I become so duty-bound and work-focused that I have given over little by little the ground that must grow flowers, only to sow it with corn?

Corn is good. Corn is proper. But flowers are necessary too. It seems I have not planted any flowers lately. And my pleasure in the corn crop may actually suffer by it—because joy is multifaceted. The joy over a good corn crop is different from the joy over a tumbling crop of roses. Without the corn celebration, the rose celebration is frothy. But without the roses, the corn celebration is flat. Let us have a round joy, then, by having a round life.

There is another adage that is related here, I think: "Keep your tools sharp." My grandfather always took time to put an edge on his axes and saws even when I knew he was tired and there was more work to do before supper. In my youthful impatience I thought we should keep going, finish the work. The pause for axe sharpening was boring and annoying. The sun kept passing overhead and there he sat, skimming the whetstone along the blade, calmly, and looking at the stack of wood.

Just once he acknowledged my impatience. Still looking at the axe he said, "Ten minutes here saves an hour there." He inclined his head toward the wood.

When something you truly enjoy or the honing of skills overused begins to look like a waste of time to you, perhaps you are out of balance. Perhaps you have allowed some duty or deadline to trick you into thinking that plunging on without pleasure or renewal will be the only way to accomplish your goals. It is a seductive lie. I fall for it all the time. And in the end it not only causes me to actually work harder at doing less but also makes me jealous of black bears who can just go to sleep for six months.

But not today. I came to work during vacation to finish a job from last week. But I find my axe is dull and so is my joy in the work. So I am leaving to go "sharpen my axe." I am sure that my work next week will be all the better for it.

Reprinted from Teacher to Teacherr, Volume 6, Issue 1.

Used with permission from BJU Press. For permission to reproduce this article, please write BJU Press.