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We hear a lot about the polycrisis, a tsunami of crises, each one alone an existential wave about to wash us all out to sea.However, the Contemplation Crisis is never mentioned as one of them.
Some call it an attention crisis, but that may be somewhat simplistic. Whatever we call it, it is something we might think of taking a look at, and soon.
Albert Camus said, "In order to understand the world, one has to turn away from it on occasion."
But really, who has the time, quiet space, or will to go there?
The modern world is engineered for full-throttle living—24/7/365, no breaks except for the burnt out. Even rare downtime gets hijacked by "must-do" tasks or the endless spin of 24-hour news.
And when we finally pause to pay full attention to our minds, strange and scary things emerge: discomfort, hidden pains, the raw self we've dodged.
It takes courage to commit to that place.
One can never relax long enough to be contemplative because working yourself to an early death has been sold as a virtue as well as a requirement.
If we are to prioritize self-care, optimal health, and perhaps our very survival, it means making regular space for down time, in spite of an unrealistic and exploitative work ethic.
And not only down time, but alone time as well.
And not just alone time, but quiet alone time.
The reason it is so important is because quiet and solitude are precursors to something even more important—contemplation.
Thomas Merton, a modern contemplative, warned: "Contemplation must be possible if we are to remain human.”
We have an instinctive need for harmony, peace, tranquility, order, and meaning—none of which define our current frenzy.
Merton pointed out that our ancestors once lived more leisurely and spiritually.
That kind of life is something I've been working on since retiring from teaching 24 years ago to embrace simplicity and intentional, contemplative space.
Merton's warning sounds serious. Is it possible that we are missing the real existential threat—our lack of time and ability for contemplation?
In the relentless pursuit of getting more and getting it faster, we have lost our path and forgotten the vital importance of contemplative activities.
Perhaps we're afraid to confront ourselves there—horrified by the discomfort and pain it reveals. Yet humans that we are, we'll also find bliss, and eventually, an unshakeable contentment and peace.
We have been so distracted for so long that we have forgotten the wisdom passed down to us from contemplatives in the past.
As Pythagoras urged: "Know thyself; then thou shalt know the Universe and God."
Aristotle echoed: "Knowing yourself is the beginning of all wisdom."
The best path? Contemplation. Without it, we're lost.
So how do we start, in a world that fights our every pause?
Begin small, with practices that honour simplicity and build that quiet alone time.
Here are a few contemplative anchors to weave into your days:
Solitary Nature Walks: Step out alone, no phone or podcast—just the rhythm of your feet on earth. Let thoughts wander without agenda; Pythagoras might approve, as this "knows thyself" through the universe's quiet mirror.
Breath-Focused Sitting: Five minutes daily, eyes closed, savouring your breath like it's a three course meal. It's Merton's harmony in a micro-dose that counters the 24/7 grind with a pause of pure presence.
Journal Prompts in Stillness: In a dedicated quiet corner, scribble unfiltered responses to "What am I avoiding today?" or Camus's turnaround: "What world am I turning from right now?" Unearth discomfort, invite bliss.
Evening Unplug Ritual: Ditch screens an hour before bed for candlelit reflection—read a single ancient quote (like Aristotle's) and sit with it. Reclaim ancestral leisure, one flicker at a time.
Mindful Chores: Turn dishwashing, weeding, or just about any activity into meditation. Give full attention to the task's texture and tempo. It's contemplation disguised as "busy," proving even everyday tasks are sacred moments.
These aren't fancy retreats; they're easily accessible rebellions against the speed ethic, fostering the courage to go deeper.
Start with one, and watch the contemplation crisis recede, wave by existential wave.
Along the way, we will reclaim our calm, and our lives.
