I spent the last week doing nothing. For the first time since I can recall, I didn’t write or create anything; I worked on no projects, and just allowed myself to flow with whatever desires I had in the moment. I read, shopped too much, and spent hours working in the garden. I repotted and fertilized my house plants. I breathed.
The sense of spaciousness taking the time created felt foreign to me at first. I was tempted many times to assign myself goals or metrics of success, and had to remind myself that my mission was to complete one simple task – to not work on any of my projects. No matter what I did, as long as I didn’t do those things, the week would be a success.
After recently being laid off, I’ve spent the last few weeks scrambling to complete different projects, working on editing a book, dabbling in a self-pubbed project, a podcast, and other things. My rationale as to why I felt the need to cram so many things onto my plate at one time varied by day; who knew when I would again experience such free time? What if I can quickly make enough money from one of these avenues where I don’t need to return to work? How else will I prove my worth as a human being unless I don’t dedicate my time and energy into something to help support my family?
I had friends who tried to be encouraging about my new situation, and I know they meant well, but hearing that “this is the universe giving me signs” to run with my creativity only made the internal pressure I felt grow worse. After my burn out and break, if the universe was trying to tell me anything, it was probably to slow the fuck down.
For context, I was working on projects all day, from about 9:00 AM, often until 7:00 PM or later. I was depressed, too, feeling like each day was a failure unless I made massive progress each day. Joy had departed the room, and returned only when I made enough space for her. One of the benefits of being a creative and believing you can make your life into something authentic means that you get to decide what your life looks like. I had forgotten that, and instead shackled myself to a grind or die work ethic that reduced my waking hours to a bitter slog.
I can’t exaggerate how foreign having space felt. In the beginning it came in flashes, moments of freedom, little blips of relief. Scraps of new stories popped into my head, concepts and characters with emotional weight that I could feel in my body like I was physically beginning to gestate them. I had space too, for other people, for friends and family. Time to slow down and think. To appreciate what I have, and for the first time in a long while, not think about what I was going to do next that was going to make me happy.
I think I have learned that preserving that spaciousness has to be the greatest priority of my creative life. My mind was a garden I had over-planted and over watered – everything in it fought each other for sun and strangled each other with their roots. Now I see I need to make space between things, around things, to let the flowers thrive. I’m carrying this new found insight into this week. I’m working on one short story – just one! I have one home project I will work on, depending on the weather. I am leaving room to read and take care of my physical space, because working in disorder affects my mental health.
Closely guarding my time and energy is new to me. I’m sure I’ll over-correct in some areas. But that’s okay. I’m committed to figuring out what balance looks like now, one day at a time.