Cal Newport asks, in the Chronicle of Higher Education, whether email is making professors stupid. Frictionless communication comes at the expense of long stretches of uninterrupted thought. Some of the practices that make me a better scholar and teacher:

  • writing letters by hand;
  • walking (strolling, perambulating, sauntering—not merely moving my body to the next meeting) outdoors;
  • reading deeply and broadly;
  • carrying paper and pen, and taking notes, and then reflecting on those notes and refining them later;
  • making time for art;
  • prayer, singing, worship;
  • contemplation, conversation, and commentary. I’m not aiming for what is so often vaunted as “efficiency.” I am far more interested in doing a few things well. (Vaunting afterwards, or during, is optional, and need not be online.)

My friends often hear me return to this word “contemplation.” I think of it as what precedes good conversation. The word can sound antiquated and slow in an age that cherishes speed. But some things shouldn’t be rushed.

The word has echoes of time in a temple, in a sacred space that invites us to move slowly, to consider our smallness in a great cosmos. The columns of a cathedral draw one’s gaze upwards like boles of ancient trees. The act of looking up slows our feet, and even helps us to stand still, lest we tumble into a well like ancient Thales.

The street outside, the space outside the temenos, can bustle on. It will still buzz and hum when we return to it. For now, read slowly. Drink deeply. Listen quietly. All of this is preparation. It looks like inefficiency because you are not moving fast. But the best runners take time to prepare their muscles for the race, and while they are preparing they are often still. To run without ceasing is not efficient; it is self-defeat.

We will all devote ourselves to something. Something will be the object of our affection. That affection will be shown by how we inhabit the moments of our days, (by how, as we often say, we “spend” our limited allotment of time.) Worship—acknowledging something as worthy of our time and attention, or worth-ship— is not optional. The only choice is who and what receives our attention.