Is there any cure for the constancy of the desire to do something else?
Like sitting beside a window, wrapped in the biggest of blankets, having the time to brew and sip coffee, reading the book I've been looking forward to for ages, pages illumined by the bright, steel gray of a winter Saturday morning streaming through the glass, and still, suddenly, I'd rather be out in the mist that is cradling the world.
So I'll go for a walk, to see the firm brick houses lined up just so, to the park that still lives and breaths though so much of it is now sleeping. The brisk cool of the morning enhances the comfort of scarves and wool coats, and walking quickly builds the excitement of just being in a dynamic world that doesn't wait for me but invites me to participate in the unfolding song it's already singing.
And then it's too cold, and I wish I were inside again. And I remember the goals I had for the day: number of pages read, mountains of dishes cleaned, moments of future planned, strings of conversations entertained, and I haven't done any of it. I feel as if I've squandered the day, when I've only taken it from myself.
But who's to say that the walk shouldn't have been walked? Who's to say that coffee and trees and bricks and dreams aren't the most important things to have possibly happened that day? Who's to say that a real second spent breathing pure joy and peace means less than a whole hour of productivity? This isn't to say that we don't have responsibilities, that there aren't things we must and should do, but it is to say that I spend far too much of my time failing myself. I regret spending time (or wishing I were spending time) doing the things that breathe the most life into my lungs, that build the biggest ideas in my head, for fear that I should have been doing something more productive.
I'm the ruler of my own shoulds!
So, surely somehow, it will be possible to let them go. I like the idea of myself as a person who is okay with giving up books for walks and walks for books, a person more free to whims and changes of fancy. But all too often it's simply too difficult or paradoxically comfortable to maintain the guilt than to allow myself to enjoy changing my mind. Of course I know that my value isn't in how many books I was disciplined enough to read or in how clean I keep my car or apartment, but these markers have accumulated a lot of weight that art galleries and views of the city just haven't landed yet.
So, I'll try to be patient as I give myself afternoons off, put books down and maybe not pick them up again, and decide to take a look around another block instead of heading home by a certain arbitrary time. I'm very good at arbitrary times. So much of our days are spent in the necessities and requirements of life, that we can probably all learn to turn our attention more to the things that give us life, enhance it. And, even in these moments, to change our minds and pursue whatever we want, for this is the only place and time we've got.
And here is a place to pursue the life-giving.
Like sitting beside a window, wrapped in the biggest of blankets, having the time to brew and sip coffee, reading the book I've been looking forward to for ages, pages illumined by the bright, steel gray of a winter Saturday morning streaming through the glass, and still, suddenly, I'd rather be out in the mist that is cradling the world.
So I'll go for a walk, to see the firm brick houses lined up just so, to the park that still lives and breaths though so much of it is now sleeping. The brisk cool of the morning enhances the comfort of scarves and wool coats, and walking quickly builds the excitement of just being in a dynamic world that doesn't wait for me but invites me to participate in the unfolding song it's already singing.
And then it's too cold, and I wish I were inside again. And I remember the goals I had for the day: number of pages read, mountains of dishes cleaned, moments of future planned, strings of conversations entertained, and I haven't done any of it. I feel as if I've squandered the day, when I've only taken it from myself.
But who's to say that the walk shouldn't have been walked? Who's to say that coffee and trees and bricks and dreams aren't the most important things to have possibly happened that day? Who's to say that a real second spent breathing pure joy and peace means less than a whole hour of productivity? This isn't to say that we don't have responsibilities, that there aren't things we must and should do, but it is to say that I spend far too much of my time failing myself. I regret spending time (or wishing I were spending time) doing the things that breathe the most life into my lungs, that build the biggest ideas in my head, for fear that I should have been doing something more productive.
I'm the ruler of my own shoulds!
So, surely somehow, it will be possible to let them go. I like the idea of myself as a person who is okay with giving up books for walks and walks for books, a person more free to whims and changes of fancy. But all too often it's simply too difficult or paradoxically comfortable to maintain the guilt than to allow myself to enjoy changing my mind. Of course I know that my value isn't in how many books I was disciplined enough to read or in how clean I keep my car or apartment, but these markers have accumulated a lot of weight that art galleries and views of the city just haven't landed yet.
So, I'll try to be patient as I give myself afternoons off, put books down and maybe not pick them up again, and decide to take a look around another block instead of heading home by a certain arbitrary time. I'm very good at arbitrary times. So much of our days are spent in the necessities and requirements of life, that we can probably all learn to turn our attention more to the things that give us life, enhance it. And, even in these moments, to change our minds and pursue whatever we want, for this is the only place and time we've got.
And here is a place to pursue the life-giving.