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The Cult of Busyness

“I don’t have long,” a friend apologizes. I do this a lot. To my sister in law whose foot is in a cast, or our friend David whose heart is broken and we still haven’t invited him over. I have settled into a novel by Beth Powning set in Puritan New England. In my alternate reading world busy means fleeing for your life through the snowy bush. It means figuring out shelter so you can dig a foundation for your new house given that you ditched your last home. Busy might be pushing out your 8th child while your husband is away. Indefinitely. I need that reminder. ******* I'd had a crummy day. I walk over to my friend Jen’s house. In the fading light I see her sitting straight in a chair, her eyes

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