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on creativity, part 2
Mar. 9th, 2019 07:04 pm content note: mention of recreational weed use.
Today, I did it. I came home from work, changed my clothes, helped my roommate start dinner, and—retired. For half an hour, I read, until my mind released the frayed loose ends of the workday and settle into quietness. Then, I stretched out on my bed and let my mind wander.
Most days, I get home from work, only to be immediately caught up in household chores. The grocery list that needs making, the laundry that needs washing (or folding, or putting away). The dinner that, every evening, needs cooking for the body that, every day, needs food.
Always, there is something else, new chores sprouting hydra-like from those already completed. If I make dinner, then I think, well, I ought to pack a lunch for tomorrow and wash the dishes. Finishing the grocery list leaves me with little sense of accomplishment, just a creeping sense of disappointment that I didn’t also finish the taxes. Projects, big and small, languish in the back of my mind, collecting guilt.
It’s frustrating. Workdays are ruled by my to-do lists: endless stacks of neatly penned items waiting to be crossed off. There are phone calls to answer, customers to wait on, trainings to complete, procedures to explain, emails to write. It sucks the color out of the hours that belong to me when I fill them, too, with action items and productivity metrics. Letting go of the pattern, though, is hard.
For most of February, I was sick. (With mono, I eventually learned, though for the first week I tried to ignore the fatigue, thinking it merely depression overlaid with a cold.) The illness reminded me, sharply, that my body has needs that cannot be ignored. For several weeks, I dragged myself to and from work, and very little else. There were days I lay on the couch, texting my roommates to bring me food. Despite a mind filled with projects, the body said No.
In a different way, getting high also grounds me in my body. It reminds me how inescapably physical my existence is, and how beautiful that can be. When I choose to spend an evening in an altered state, I set aside all my lists and tasks. It’s a conscious choice to spend the evening in simple existence. Eating. Journaling. Watching a movie, or the cat’s antics, or a candle flame.
Both mononucleosis and marijuana have reminded me how to slow down. Yesterday, I realized that I could do so voluntarily, without either.
Today, I did so. I helped a bit with dinner (thanks to my currently-stay-at-home roommate who’s doing most of the cooking lately). I checked that I would have clean clothes tomorrow. I wrote down all the projects in my head. Then, I set it all aside. After all, if I were still sick, I’d be lying down, too tired to read, and everything would be fine. So too, I reminded myself, it will be fine if I let myself read.
Free time. Thoroughly delicious quiet.
Too-rarely-tasted rest.
I read.
I thought.
I wrote.
I ate dinner with my roommates.
We read aloud.
I ignored the bathroom sink that wants scrubbing and the empty wall that wants decorations. There will be time for those, at some point. Solitude and rest come first.
Today, I did it. I came home from work, changed my clothes, helped my roommate start dinner, and—retired. For half an hour, I read, until my mind released the frayed loose ends of the workday and settle into quietness. Then, I stretched out on my bed and let my mind wander.
Most days, I get home from work, only to be immediately caught up in household chores. The grocery list that needs making, the laundry that needs washing (or folding, or putting away). The dinner that, every evening, needs cooking for the body that, every day, needs food.
Always, there is something else, new chores sprouting hydra-like from those already completed. If I make dinner, then I think, well, I ought to pack a lunch for tomorrow and wash the dishes. Finishing the grocery list leaves me with little sense of accomplishment, just a creeping sense of disappointment that I didn’t also finish the taxes. Projects, big and small, languish in the back of my mind, collecting guilt.
It’s frustrating. Workdays are ruled by my to-do lists: endless stacks of neatly penned items waiting to be crossed off. There are phone calls to answer, customers to wait on, trainings to complete, procedures to explain, emails to write. It sucks the color out of the hours that belong to me when I fill them, too, with action items and productivity metrics. Letting go of the pattern, though, is hard.
For most of February, I was sick. (With mono, I eventually learned, though for the first week I tried to ignore the fatigue, thinking it merely depression overlaid with a cold.) The illness reminded me, sharply, that my body has needs that cannot be ignored. For several weeks, I dragged myself to and from work, and very little else. There were days I lay on the couch, texting my roommates to bring me food. Despite a mind filled with projects, the body said No.
In a different way, getting high also grounds me in my body. It reminds me how inescapably physical my existence is, and how beautiful that can be. When I choose to spend an evening in an altered state, I set aside all my lists and tasks. It’s a conscious choice to spend the evening in simple existence. Eating. Journaling. Watching a movie, or the cat’s antics, or a candle flame.
Both mononucleosis and marijuana have reminded me how to slow down. Yesterday, I realized that I could do so voluntarily, without either.
Today, I did so. I helped a bit with dinner (thanks to my currently-stay-at-home roommate who’s doing most of the cooking lately). I checked that I would have clean clothes tomorrow. I wrote down all the projects in my head. Then, I set it all aside. After all, if I were still sick, I’d be lying down, too tired to read, and everything would be fine. So too, I reminded myself, it will be fine if I let myself read.
Free time. Thoroughly delicious quiet.
Too-rarely-tasted rest.
I read.
I thought.
I wrote.
I ate dinner with my roommates.
We read aloud.
I ignored the bathroom sink that wants scrubbing and the empty wall that wants decorations. There will be time for those, at some point. Solitude and rest come first.
