A forwarded email told of a master violinist who spent time in a subway station playing a most intricate piece on a violin worth millions. But few people paid him or his music any attention. 

Raymond Carver, a master of the short story, commented that a writer doesn't need to be the smartest person on the block, but should be able to look with amazement at a leaf or an old shoe.

We writers need to pay attention.

But many of our heads are spinning too fast to allow us to stop and look. No doubt we could benefit from practicing some of the attentiveness meditation that's popular these days, unless the idea of practicing anything else than what we're already doing sends us into quakes of horror.

Lately, I've been writing, running Perelandra College where I also teach, and raising my amazing seven year old Zoe pretty much on my own. I'm determined she'll stay happy and as innocent as one can be in a perilous world, and that she'll grow up emotionally, mentally, spiritually, and financially able to pursue whatever she's called to. 

All these tasks are privileges for which I'm grateful and which give me joy, but they don't leave much time to pay attention to leaves or old shoes. I could quit running the college, or teaching, and when the time's right, I will. 

Meanwhile I often remind myself of  the way my friend Bob cooks and washes dishes, at a leisurely clip, as though he'd as just as soon be doing those chores as anything else. The only way we busy folks can wash dishes without rushing is to convince ourselves that the other chores on our agenda aren't as urgent as we've considered them.

Us Christians are advised that the only crucial chore is communing with God. Besides, in all but rare cases, the key to succeeding with our goals, whether they be clean kitchens or novels, isn't urgency but persistence.