from Chel Avery
![avalanche]( "avalanche")
Our world is filled with so much – so much stuff, so many messages, so many things to do and respond to and keep up with. There must be people who like it that way, but I’ve long since accepted the fact that I’m not one of them – I need relief from the onslaught. Lately I’ve been noticing the many different approaches people use to manage the muchness of the world and find some peace of mind.
![quiet]( "quiet")
About a year ago, I read Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World That Can’t Stop Talking. One of the gifts of this book was the term “restorative niche.” The author makes the point that (depending on the study and definition used) one-third to one-half of us are introverts, but we live in a culture geared toward the values of extroversion. That means that a great many people are stretching themselves to fit into a world that is more interactive and requires more responsiveness than is comfortable for them. How do they manage? One technique many use is to seek out the “restorative niche,” the getaway where you can recover from the hubbub. A restorative niche may be elaborate – such as a secluded country home to which guests are rarely invited – or quick and simple – a trip to the bathroom that you don’t really need. There are probably as many kinds as there are people.
![testament of dev]( "testament of dev")
I have been noticing that the idea of “restorative niche” goes beyond time and space. It can also be a habit of mind. In his wonderful essay, “The Simplification of Life” (from the Quaker classic, A Testament of Devotion),Thomas Kelly writes about all the competing loyalties and responsibilities demanding our attention and how they can be called into unity. “Each of us,” he writes, “tends to be, not a single self, but a whole committee of selves” each clamoring for its own priority, rather than living from a single Center. “Life from the Center,” he concludes, “is a life of unhurried peace and power. It is simple. It is serene. . . . It takes no time, but it occupies all our time.” 
Another kind of onslaught is electronic connectivity. Back in the early 1980s, I asked a manager at my workplace when we could get a fax machine. He said we were getting one soon, but he also said, “Don’t think for a minute that having a fax will make your life easier. It will be more difficult – people who used to think it reasonable to wait at least two days for a response from you will start expecting you to get back to them in a couple hours.” 
I had no idea how prophetic that counsel would turn out to be! Today I really wrestle with how much connectivity I can manage. I set arbitrary limits. The few people who have my cell phone number know I rarely check messages; I look at Facebook once a day until I see something I’ve seen before or until my morning coffee cup is empty, and that’s it for 24 hours; I have a rule about not checking my email before 11 a.m. because once I do, I will probably lose control of my workday. 
![hamlet's blackberry 2]( "hamlet's blackberry 2")
In his delightful book, Hamlet’s Blackberry, William Powers considers the role of “screens” in our lives. What are the benefits, and what are the problems of being constantly within reach by cell phone, email, etc? There are real advantages, but there are also costs we haven’t yet learned to limit. He sees us in a moment of cultural transition where we are still learning to manage the many new ways we are “connected,” and so he looks for wisdom in the words of philosophers who wrote at times when other such major transitions occurred. What can we learn from Plato’s thoughts about writing, Thoreau’s about the telegraph, McLuhan’s about mass media? I found this book fascinating.
![declutter]( "declutter")
On another front altogether, let me recommend The Little Quaker Book of De-Clutter. This very practical handbook is composed of short sections with level-headed advice about how to fight back against the overwhelming accumulation of stuff we don’t need, stuff we won’t really ever get around to using, and stuff that catches dust. The author suggests that sometimes the simplicity testimony backfires on Friends—in the effort not to waste anything, we allow our desks, drawers, closets, and cabinets to fill with detritus. The home, she argues, should be a peaceful refuge that nurtures our vitality, not a place that weighs us down with its fullness. She offers this booklet as a guide to “clearing our houses so we can clear our lives and be available to God’s leadings.&rdquo
May you find refuge
Chel
Our world is filled with so much – so much stuff, so many messages, so many things to do and respond to and keep up with. There must be people who like it that way, but I’ve long since accepted the fact that I’m not one of them – I need relief from the onslaught. Lately I’ve been noticing the many different approaches people use to manage the muchness of the world and find some peace of mind.
About a year ago, I read Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World That Can’t Stop Talking. One of the gifts of this book was the term “restorative niche.” The author makes the point that (depending on the study and definition used) one-third to one-half of us are introverts, but we live in a culture geared toward the values of extroversion. That means that a great many people are stretching themselves to fit into a world that is more interactive and requires more responsiveness than is comfortable for them. How do they manage? One technique many use is to seek out the “restorative niche,” the getaway where you can recover from the hubbub. A restorative niche may be elaborate – such as a secluded country home to which guests are rarely invited – or quick and simple – a trip to the bathroom that you don’t really need. There are probably as many kinds as there are people.
I have been noticing that the idea of “restorative niche” goes beyond time and space. It can also be a habit of mind. In his wonderful essay, “The Simplification of Life” (from the Quaker classic, A Testament of Devotion),Thomas Kelly writes about all the competing loyalties and responsibilities demanding our attention and how they can be called into unity. “Each of us,” he writes, “tends to be, not a single self, but a whole committee of selves” each clamoring for its own priority, rather than living from a single Center. “Life from the Center,” he concludes, “is a life of unhurried peace and power. It is simple. It is serene. . . . It takes no time, but it occupies all our time.” 
Another kind of onslaught is electronic connectivity. Back in the early 1980s, I asked a manager at my workplace when we could get a fax machine. He said we were getting one soon, but he also said, “Don’t think for a minute that having a fax will make your life easier. It will be more difficult – people who used to think it reasonable to wait at least two days for a response from you will start expecting you to get back to them in a couple hours.” 
I had no idea how prophetic that counsel would turn out to be! Today I really wrestle with how much connectivity I can manage. I set arbitrary limits. The few people who have my cell phone number know I rarely check messages; I look at Facebook once a day until I see something I’ve seen before or until my morning coffee cup is empty, and that’s it for 24 hours; I have a rule about not checking my email before 11 a.m. because once I do, I will probably lose control of my workday. 
In his delightful book, Hamlet’s Blackberry, William Powers considers the role of “screens” in our lives. What are the benefits, and what are the problems of being constantly within reach by cell phone, email, etc? There are real advantages, but there are also costs we haven’t yet learned to limit. He sees us in a moment of cultural transition where we are still learning to manage the many new ways we are “connected,” and so he looks for wisdom in the words of philosophers who wrote at times when other such major transitions occurred. What can we learn from Plato’s thoughts about writing, Thoreau’s about the telegraph, McLuhan’s about mass media? I found this book fascinating.
On another front altogether, let me recommend The Little Quaker Book of De-Clutter. This very practical handbook is composed of short sections with level-headed advice about how to fight back against the overwhelming accumulation of stuff we don’t need, stuff we won’t really ever get around to using, and stuff that catches dust. The author suggests that sometimes the simplicity testimony backfires on Friends—in the effort not to waste anything, we allow our desks, drawers, closets, and cabinets to fill with detritus. The home, she argues, should be a peaceful refuge that nurtures our vitality, not a place that weighs us down with its fullness. She offers this booklet as a guide to “clearing our houses so we can clear our lives and be available to God’s leadings.&rdquo
May you find refuge
Chel