We are so obsessed with doing that we have no time and no

“We are so obsessed with doing that we have no time and no imagination left for being. As a result, men are valued not for what they are but for what they do or what they have — for their usefulness.” Thus spoke Thomas Merton, the contemplative monk who fled the noise of the world to hear the voice of the eternal. His words are both lament and revelation — a cry against the modern fever that exalts doing over being, productivity over presence, achievement over soul. In this reflection, Merton unveils a sickness that has spread through the heart of humanity: that men and women have forgotten the sacred art of simply being alive.

In the ancient world, philosophers and mystics spoke of balance — between action and contemplation, between labor and silence. The Greeks called it bios theoretikos, the life of reflection, through which one could commune with truth itself. But as Merton saw in his time, and as we see still more clearly in ours, the scales have fallen entirely toward doing. We measure our worth not by our essence but by our usefulness. We chase accomplishment until our spirits are hollow, our days devoured by tasks that multiply without end. In this restless striving, the imagination — that inner flame that once kindled art, wisdom, and wonder — flickers and fades, drowned by the ceaseless demand to produce.

Merton’s insight was born not in bitterness, but in solitude. He lived among the Trappists, who rose before dawn to pray, to work, and to listen to the silence that most men fear. There, in the quiet, he discovered that being is not idleness but the highest form of life. To be still, to breathe, to observe the unfolding of one’s own existence — this is not laziness, but wisdom. He saw that when we forget to simply be, we become machines of our own making, slaves to the idols of speed and efficiency. The world praises the man who conquers, invents, accumulates — but it forgets to honor the man who understands, who sees, who loves.

Consider the life of Vincent van Gogh, the painter of stars and sorrow. In his lifetime, he was called useless, a failure — a man who produced little of “value.” Yet his being, his inner fire, was luminous beyond measure. He saw the sacred in wheat fields and the eternal in night skies. Though poor and forgotten, he remained true to his vision, and his art became a bridge between heaven and earth. Van Gogh’s greatness lay not in his usefulness, but in the intensity of his being, his courage to feel, to imagine, and to see beauty in despair. So it is with all souls who choose depth over noise.

Merton’s warning is clear: when humanity measures worth by doing, it destroys both the earth and itself. For the one who never rests, never reflects, becomes blind to the miracle of existence. In such blindness, greed replaces gratitude, and the imagination — which should soar toward the divine — is shackled to the mundane. The world becomes smaller, and men become shadows of what they might have been. To reclaim our souls, we must return to the rhythm of being — to listen again to silence, to dwell in wonder, to remember that the sacred is found not in possession, but in presence.

What, then, should we do, O seeker of truth? The answer is simple and profound: be still. Set aside moments each day when you are not striving, not chasing, not proving. Walk without a destination. Sit without distraction. Look upon the sky and know that its beauty needs no purpose. Learn to value yourself not for what you accomplish, but for what you are — a conscious flame in the vastness of creation. From this stillness, imagination will rise again like dawn, and your actions will no longer spring from fear, but from wholeness.

So remember, child of the modern storm: you are not a tool, nor a machine. You are a soul — ancient, infinite, luminous. Let being precede doing, and let your worth be rooted not in what you possess, but in what you perceive. When you live from the fullness of being, your work becomes sacred, your imagination blooms, and your life becomes not a race, but a prayer. In that prayer, as Merton knew, the human heart rediscovers what it has forgotten — that to truly live is not to do, but to be.