Wasted Time

A New York Times article from Monday claims, "The average person wastes 21.8 hours every week. That's equal to a part time job or running five whole marathons."

Seeing the article and accompanying video, I can't decide if it is serious or satirical? Like listening to podcasts on triple-speed is a way to optimize your life?!

I think I do a pretty good job of optimizing my life. I work hard. I read quickly. I rush through mundane tasks.

And you know what? I am exhausted. I am stressed. I am anxious. Some days I feel like I am rushing from task to task, until I collapse in bed at night, to speed-read a chapter on my Kindle before I fall into a deep sleep.

So maybe we do waste 21.8 hours a week. But maybe the solution is not to try to optimize more of our hours - but to waste more of them. Maybe wasting time is where the lost art of daydreaming can come back. Maybe wasting time is where we rediscover mindfulness. Maybe wasting time is where the best years of our life are yet to be lived.

So, New York Times, I think I will pass on listening at triple-speed. But I just may enjoy savoring the words on a page a little deeper tonight.

On Writing and Living

I have always loved to write. Any feedback on writing sticks in my brain like glue. In an English class my first semester of college, my instructor wrote on one paper, “Excellent thoughts. However, not every sentence needs to convey every possible thought.”

In writing, I tend to cram in too many words and ideas. My sentences are often far too long. I have little variety in the cadence, trying to make each sentence capture a complete idea instead of breaking it down into parts. 

I approach my life like I do my writing. Why enjoy a vacation in one spot when you can take an intense road trip and see many new places? Why focus on one goal at a time when you can have multiple? Why concentrate on a few research projects when you can work on 10 or more simultaneously?

The problem with cramming too many words and ideas into a single sentence is the reader becomes unfocused, overwhelmed, adrift. The problem with cramming too much activity into a finite space is that I, too, become unfocused, overwhelmed, adrift.

Awareness is the first step in fixing a problem. I try to make a conscious effort to use shorter sentences when writing. To trust that not every sentence needs to convey every thought. And this year, I am going to try to make a conscious effort to slow down at times. To pause. To savor. To breathe. To trust that not everything needs to be done all at once.

Half-Baked Thoughts

his should be a blog entry, but I’m tired and the computer is in another room, so you get half-baked thoughts from my phone instead. 😉

We (at least me) sometimes feel so much pressure to be all things to all people all the time. But we can’t. We aren’t good at everything. We don’t enjoy everything. We burn out if we take on too many tasks that deplete us.

I do not enjoy cooking. But I love to bring gift certificates and ready-made food if that is helpful.

I do not enjoy driving. But I love to walk with anyone who wants a listening ear.

I do not enjoy decorating. But I love to text people to check in.

I do not enjoy corralling large groups of children. But I love to take minutes at any committee meeting.

So if you are beating yourself up for not being able to fulfill every need in every role, fear not. We are all wired differently. What depletes me recharges many - and what a wonderful blessing that is!

That’s it. That’s the pseudo-blog entry. Love you all and good night. 

Presidents' Day

Today is Presidents' Day. In the first three years we lived in Florida, before Daniel was born, Annika attended a wonderful daycare that always closed for Columbus Day and Presidents' Day to allow the staff to attend in-service training.

When we moved to Florida to pursue our PhDs, I became fanatical. I was obsessed with studying all the time, working all the time, reading articles all the time, working on classwork and teaching assignments all.the.time. These two annual days off never failed to cause me stress.

I remember one President's Day, when I was in my second year of coursework. The holiday, as always, fell on a Monday, where I was lucky to have no classes I was taking or teaching scheduled. But instead of embracing this day off as an opportunity to bond with my then-two-year-old daughter, I panicked. I focused on how I would grow behind at work and in class. I could have spent an enchanted day with our delightful toddler. Instead, I tried to pack as much work into the day as I could. My sharpest memory on that day is taking Annika to a nearby park and attempting to read journal articles at the same time, glancing up intermittently to make sure our child was still alive.

I sometimes reflect on those years and marvel at my work ethic, drive, diligence, single-minded focus. I worry I have become too much the other way now, too easily focused on distractions at home while slipping in focus at work. And yet, I also look back and wonder in awe at how I could become so unraveled that I lost any sense of perspective. One day off would not make a difference in my progress at school, but could make a tremendous impact in the life of my child. I shudder at how far away I let balance slip.

Today, my children were off of school for Presidents' Day. I got into work late after making sure both were settled for the day. Annika has been sick, and I also left work early to take her to the doctor. I could feel the tension in my shoulders build when I calculated everything I hoped to accomplish today that was left unfinished.

But the advantage of being a 40-year-old as opposed to a 26-year-old is perspective. Perspective in knowing now what I lacked years ago - that one day will not matter to work, but can make a huge difference to my children. As I sit on the couch tonight, processing work emails and completing low-energy tasks, I try to remember this perspective. Life is a marathon, not a sprint - and work will still be here tomorrow.

Valentine's Day

Tomorrow is Valentine's Day. This holiday will forever embody the anniversary of when Will and I became engaged to be married (was it on Valentine's Day? The day before? Two days before? What defines "engaged"? Nobody knows.)

I have been reflecting over the last year over what our time together has meant. Clearly, we have defied the statistical odds by getting married so young, having known each other for so short a time, by making such a risky move. But it never felt risky at the time. It is only looking back in hindsight at everything we have overcome together that I can appreciate what a bold move that was.

Part of the problem with getting married when you are 18 years old to someone you have not known very long is that you can change.  I am not the same person I was when I was 18 years old. Neither is Will. We have been fortunate that as each has grown and shifted and changed shape, the other has changed shape right alongside so we are just as tightly wound together as we ever were. Not every story has this ending.

The other problem with getting married so young is that it is easy to fall into deeply-entrenched patterns of behavior that are hard to shake later. Some of my rhythms from those early years were healthy. Some were not. But all have continued to shape me to do this day. We are lucky that we have been able to work through these issues.

So when I think of Valentine's Day, I think of how fortunate I am. How lucky I am to have built my life with someone who is my lobster. This Valentine's Day, I wish you similar luck. Because we are wired for connections - and having a deep connection with another being is the most spiritual experience I can imagine.

Happy Valentine's Day, Will. Here is to a lifetime of continuing to move forward together. I love you.

A Tiny Window Into Grief

This week brings back several poignant memories of loved ones who have departed. My dear sweet wonderful friend, Christine, the woman who forever embodies beauty and calmness and youth, would have been 38 years old yesterday. The last birthday she celebrated was her 36th. I remember the surprise party we had for her when she turned 30, how young she was, how radiant, how her whole life was ahead of her.

This week also would be the 76th birthday for my father-in-law, Dick, a man who shared his special day with Valentine's Day, such that the holiday is forever entwined with memories of him. His last birthday celebrated was when he turned 74. I remember when he turned 70, how joyous and vibrant and alive he was, how elated he was to be celebrating this milestone.

Both Christine and Dick died in 2018. This is the second year that these milestones are reached with their absence. I feel their loss less sharply than I did in the first year after their death. But when these special dates come around, that I will never, ever, ever see them again in this life on this earth hits me so intensely it as if all the wind is knocked out of me.

Others are suffering the loss of these people far more than I am. I am not one of their children, or a spouse, or a parent. I am experiencing grief as someone outside the inner circle. And yet, this whole experience has given me a tiny window into what it is like to love someone, to lose someone, and to mourn their absence forever.

One particularly strange sensation is how time continues to march on. I still turned 40 last year - even though both of them were gone. Dick's grandchildren and Christine's children continue to grow older, to mature, to transform - even in their absence. The leaves turn brown and fall off the trees until the budding cycle begins again. The sun rises and sets as the earth makes its way around.

Another odd feeling is how much of the mundane, ordinary, dull continue to demand attention even in the face of intense inhalations of grief. I still have to buy bananas for the week at the grocery story. My husband still has to grade his exams. We all have to wake up in the morning and get through the day. The sharp contrast between the surreal feelings of loss and the earthly demands of life is overwhelming.

If you have ever had a tiny window or a whole wall of windows into the world of grief, I wish you comfort on your journey. Time marches on, which is a blessing but can also be a curse. I wish you fond memories. I wish you companionship on the path ahead. I wish you love.

On Breaking and Melding Back Together Again

Several years ago, my husband and two children were very caught up in a video game. I did not deem it worthy of even registering what game this was at the time, but it was the Legend of Zelda: Ocarina of Time. A classic of the video game canon. I did not fully appreciate what an enjoyable experience this was for the three of them, how they all bonded over unlocking the puzzle pieces and brainstorming what steps can next, how each of them delighted in seeing the emerging world unfold. I was only annoyed because they were playing a video game, something I afforded little value.

One night, around 10:30 p.m., I was trying to sleep. Our master bedroom was directly on top of the living room, and, in an incredibly awkward design choice, had a completely open wall extending on the west side of the room that opened up onto the living room. This meant I could hear every conversation in the living room as if the person was yelling next to me in my ear.

I am not sure what exactly led me to snap. But I did snap. I ragged. I seethed. I fumed. I yelled about what a terrible choice of a pastime video games were, how everyone was wasting their time, how they were “garbage” and “junk” and made me so very, very angry.

I apologized later for my outburst, but the damage was done. Daniel immediately ripped up the homemade sword and shield he had been designing off of Legend of Zelda. Annika sobbed. Will stewed in quiet fury. But the real damage extended beyond that night, into the days, months, years ahead. Every time I entered the living room, if Daniel were playing a video game, he would immediately tense up, throw the remote control, switch off the power in a state of anxiety, and try to eradicate any trace of evidence that he enjoyed video games.

Daniel’s general anxiety continued to mount – for a multi-faceted array of reasons – so many so that I almost forgot about my video game outburst in the first place. And, indeed, it would be overly simplistic to reduce his struggles to my attitude about video games. What I do know is that his anxiety grew so intense that we started therapy with a psychologist, with whom we discussed Daniel’s extreme tension. I gave the example of tensing up whenever I came into the living room. Daniel sat on the well-padded couch, his arms folded, his shoulders high against his ears, offering monosyllable responses to any inquiries as to why he might be feeling so tense.

And something clicked for me. “I think,” I offered slowly, “you might be really afraid to play video games because I called them junk before, and I screamed about how much I hated them one time. Is that why?”

“No,” Daniel sniffed, a solitary tear forming in the corner of his eye.

“Did that really upset you?” the psychologist asked softly. “Were you afraid your mom was mad at you?”

“No,” Daniel stammered out louder, rubbing the backs of his palms into his eyes. “Just Dad. She was mainly mad at Dad.”

“Would it maybe help for you to teach your Mom that video game? Maybe just 10 or 15 minutes? So she can understand what it means to you?”

“Maybe,” Daniel’s voice cracked open as the floodgate of tears began in earnest.

I squeezed Daniel tight into my body, feeling his wet cheeks, his body shuddering in tiny gasps. And I wondered how I could have gotten something so wrong. How I could have so misjudged how important something was that I made him feel unvalued, inferior, less than. How I could have been so angry over something so inconsequential. How I could have snapped in fury instead of coming from a place of curiosity or wonder or love.

Daniel was hesitant to show me his game. I prodded him to show me the next day, then the next, then the next, until a week had past. But then, one Friday evening with no obligations, we set up Legend of Zelda into our aging 55-inch television set in the living room, and I took a stab at the controllers. I was terrible. I struggled to navigate any type of movement on the screen. I was confused about the overall purpose and wondered which actions to take. But Daniel was delighted. And, by extension, I was delighted as well. Delighted that it was something so easy to fix what had become so toxic and broken.

I will never enjoy video games the way my son does. But I hope to always come at them at a place of curiosity rather than judgment.

Your Children Are Not You

I told my husband at lunch today my goal for the year is to remember our children are not me. Which is ironic, because I think that is my goal every year. In fact, I found a blog entry I wrote almost a year ago to the date titled - wait for it - "Your Children Are Not You." This is apparently a resolution and goal that never sticks.

What is fascinating is I seem to have a harder time remembering this notion for my daughter than my son. My son is truly his own person - long hair, apathetic about sports, de-bunker of gender stereotypes. My daughter, my beautiful, independent-thinking, artistic, creative, introverted 15-year-old child whom I love so much and still so often think should be a miniature reflection of me.

One of my ongoing and rather ridiculous hang-ups is my daughter's lack of interest in school activities. In fact, she recorded a podcast during school yesterday, representing students who did not join extracurricular activities. My reaction to her ongoing apathy to joining organizations is embarrassment, worry, guilt, shame. And I realized today where some of those emotions are coming from: The sense that if I were her, in high school, I would be more involved.

But even though we may both have two X chromosomes, we have divergent personalities, priorities, goals, and approaches to life. Why do I expect my own path in life will be the same as my daughter's journey? I think some of this comes from a desire for safety and security. If our children conform to our visions for them and follow a similar journey to our own, their journey seems well-defined.

But my daughter is not me. Our children are not us. We do not create them. They are on loan from God. And we have the wonderful, amazing, terrifying, inspiring task of guiding them as best we can.