I’m currently approaching the first weekend of a three week orchestra festival. Our first concert is tomorrow evening, and I get to play Peter and the Wolf as part of the program.
In the meantime, I’ve also been preparing for next week’s concerts because they include a flute and harp recital, a woodwind sextet performance, and a performance of the Mozart Flute and Harp Concerto.
This three weeks in the summer is always intense, but this year is extra so!
As I was planning and packing, I was preparing to feel a consistent sense of tension and anxiousness just based on the sheer amount of performances I would have. Now that I’m here and settled in, though, I feel an overwhelming sense of calm.
If I take a step back and look at it from a distance, it makes so much sense, and I feel it every year when I arrive. Although I have a lot of musical plates to keep spinning, my other usual life responsibilities have been temporarily taken off the table.
I have as much time as I need to practice, I can spend time in quiet reflecting on rehearsals or visualizing aspects of upcoming performances, and if I want to listen to the repertoire I’m performing I don’t have to find a place to be isolated at home to do so or squeeze it in between lessons.
The simplicity of my days here - a predictable timeline of commitments, having only the flute to really focus on (although I’m doing other work here and there), and even knowing exactly what and when I’ll eat creates an underlying calm that I appreciate so much surrounding these big concerts.
Musicians, athletes and performers often talk about being in a flow state. Usually they mean a time in a performance or a game that doesn’t last for a long extended period where we are so engaged in the moment that everything else falls away.
Having access to this simplicity of lifestyle, even for a few short weeks, creates a sort of overarching flow state for me that makes it so much easier to get to work, go to bed early, and generally do all the things I wish I usually had more time for when it comes to practicing.
Eventually, though, I’ll head home and back to reality (and I am always glad to do so when the time comes!). The question, then, is how do we create a little of this life flow in our regular day-to-day?
I’m reminded of all the stories of CEOs who own only one type and color of shirt and the same with their selection of pants so that they never have to consider their outfits, or celebrities who eat exactly the same meals every day. I have to admit, that sounds a little boring to me, but I do love a good routine and maybe this is why.
It certainly could be that a key to creating this flow on a regular basis is consciously creating a helpful routine around the basics - groceries, taking our vitamins, knowing when we will sit down to do our deep work so that it’s easier to shut out the noise, etc..
What I’m experiencing for the next three weeks is the supersized version of this life flow, but it does serve as inspiration to find a little more space in my day to day life when I head home.
How do you create space to flow in your daily tasks?
Back when I started blogging again, I was unconvinced at the value of sharing online for myself. I am more convinced now, but more bothered by the interesting trade off that we see everywhere in business and technology: the value traps of constant and relevant. (Get more likes more followers don’t miss a day or a week….)
It’s the same for creatives as it would be for any business - although maybe slightly more challenging due to the unscripted nature of our work: if we get so absorbed in whatever the process is, social media or otherwise, we can forget life happens outside of that whether we acknowledge it or not.
Especially now that we can carry some or all of what we do around with us in our pocket, there is a serious need for us to draw distinctions. Not boundaries necessarily (although those are also good), but clarity for ourselves about what is real life and whether that really needs to be monetized or curated as part of our image or work.
For me there is also always the question of whether it matters at all if we can or can’t manage our usual volume of output online. Even though social media has become an expectation personally and professionally in some ways for almost all of us, and even though I hope what I share is useful, none of it affects my day to day interactions in lessons, rehearsals, or my personal life.
It’s well established at this point that social media has a way of making us all feel as if we aren’t good enough or doing enough, but I also think it adds a tremendous amount of effort to what, for creatives, is already an extremely difficult work-life balance.
I saw (a little ironically) an interesting social media post recently that said practice is unpaid work (at least monetarily it’s quite true that the two to three hours a day I try to put in prior to a difficult gig go without compensation other than the hours I am actually in rehearsal).
It seems we could add to that:
Social media is unpaid work.
Obviously that’s not true if it’s actually gaining you a sale or a new student every or most of the time you post, but for most of us I would guess that’s not the case.
So, as you consider where to put your time or what you are making yourself feel guilty about, remember your priorities.
Remember what makes you feel rested and prepared. Remember what work is most important to you, whether it’s paid or unpaid (there can be value in both). It will be unique to you, and it should be.
Remember that we can all be empowered in our own choices about how we interact with our life, and especially in our enjoyment of the passage of time.
It’s ok to be tired.
There’s so much messaging right now to scale back, take a break, or clear our plates. Which, like all advice, is good circumstantially.
Sometimes we can do that - cut out things that aren’t important or worthwhile and open up beautiful pockets of productivity or rest.
Realistically though, it’s just not like that most of the time. Some seasons are consuming. If it happens that you are in one of these seasons, I’m with you.
If you are fully booked with things that feel draining or negative, first of all, I’m sorry. Life brings all types of seasons and this is just one of them. Keep doing your best to see the small joys and care for yourself.
If you are fully booked with wonderful things, then enjoy them. Yes you may feel exhausted, but we can be both joyful and worn out.
Either way, try not to give in to complaining about your tiredness. Our culture would tell us us to wear our busy-ness as a badge, but resist the urge. Wear your joys - step into them fully and be present - but try not to elevate busy as the goal.
See if you can embrace even a small aspect of this station stop on your journey. Be present to the things that make you pause or smile and soak them up. Know that nothing lasts forever, so do your best to keep your eyes open and take in what’s around you as you walk through this very real but also impermanent season.
Finally, you may already feel that you have taken on too much, but that’s often when we give up and take on even more. Learn to draw a line even if you feel you’ve already walked too far. Keep practicing saying no when you really need to.
Hang in there. Stay the path. Bring yourself to the present moment.
A new season will be here soon.
When I started blogging regularly near the end of 2020, I was just looking for an outlet - I had just started my yoga teacher training, was teaching completely online, had no gigs to prepare for because of the pandemic, and more free time than I’d had in years.
It was great to have somewhere to flesh out ideas about teaching, yoga, being a musician - whatever was on my mind (the benefits of writing something I wasn’t sure anyone would read was feeling that I could freely take my choice of topics)!
I wasn’t sure if I would continue writing when things went “back to normal” (what is normal now, anyway?) - I was writing a lot during the time that everything was shut down.
As we all got busier again I realized that I didn’t want to stop writing, but I needed to give myself a few perimeters so I could stick to it (keeping up with the topic of last week’s blog here, I needed some constraints to keep writing creatively).
I settled on a weekly blog, published mostly on the same day each week, and for the most part that’s worked well with my schedule and lifestyle now that my calendar has filled up again.
One of the things that I wasn’t expecting to come from sitting down to write each week is the way my willingness to be open with others would change. By allowing myself to write out my teaching methods and philosophies, feelings about career choices, ideas about yoga and meditation, etc., I have been able to solidify concepts, ideas, and goals for myself.
Blogging has given me a space to practice talking about things that are important to me, which in turn lets me feel confident in conversations with my colleagues and students.
As someone who truly enjoys their privacy and solitude (only child here!), I’m still surprised at how much I’ve enjoyed making new friends online and putting myself out there a little bit more. It helped that I did it in a way that felt genuine to me - I love writing, and am sure I never would have considered or stuck to a video blog, YouTube channel, etc..
Beyond feeling like I’ve given myself more time to think about important topics in my work, the most enriching thing about engaging with other musicians has been learning the similarities of our stories. For all the ways we’re different, there are so many commonalities that come up in our training, performance, personal struggles, and interests.
I think as musicians we can often feel alone - most non-musicians have a hard time understanding our work hours, the types of jobs we have, and the pressure we feel around our performances and skills.
But I also think that as musicians we often tell ourselves we are alone - that everyone would judge us or disregard us for feeling nervous or debating a different career, that no one else feels those things or was a late bloomer musically.
The reality though is that it’s all in our heads. If we really start to listen carefully to others and open up to them in genuine conversation, it becomes clear that what makes us all the same is our humanness - we feel pressure, have fears, live for a great performance, question our choices, commit to doing something unique and demanding - and the way we reconcile that with our work and artistry.
I suppose I’m sharing all of this as encouragement - that if you feel like you want to share somehow or get to know those around you more, it’s worth it. Listen to your gut and find genuine ways to start putting yourself out there that aren’t just performances. There is so much to gain from enriching our lives professionally not just in performance, but in communication and building rich support networks.
Some of the things I’ve started doing over the last two years are still surprising to me, and might even feel a little silly, but it's hard to imagine not doing them now:
I hope that this leaves you a little inspired to try something new and find outlets for yourself. What are the ways you could explore your unique interests and skills to connect with others? I would, genuinely, love to hear about them.
Do you ever notice that when you are busy you somehow accomplish a wild number of things in one day, yet when you have all the time in the world it can be hard to get any one project done?
With deadlines looming or people counting on us, it becomes quite clear how we need to use our free time.
I always thought that I was someone who thrived under a little pressure. As a student I would procrastinate just enough on papers and studying so that I would feel the pressure of my deadlines, and then I would sit down and crank out the work that needed done.
In hindsight, what I was creating for myself were constructive time constraints. Knowing I only had two weeks until the exit exams for my Master’s degree meant that instead of sitting and chatting with friends over coffee I needed to study over my many daily caffeinated beverages.
As a freelancer, this means that when I have a half hour break from teaching and there is a gig coming up I practice instead of faffing on the internet.
It turns out that I don't have remarkable self control, I just have constraints.
With summer just starting here and school finally ending for almost all of my students, I see them relax at the evaporation of the rigid constraints of school. They have space to sleep in, see their friends, go swimming, and get outside - all things that are necessary for kids who have spent so much of the year stressing over grades and standardized tests.
But as necessary as this space to play, daydream, and relax is, the lack of schedule often wrecks some havoc on practicing.
I’ve made some adjustments over time to how I teach in the summer to help my students keep improving without feeling like I am sucking the spontaneity out of their time off:
We take a break! Each summer begins with a week off from lessons and ends that way, too. If you’ve been a student at any point, you know how special and bittersweet the transition in and out of summer can be. Add in the time I am away for summer festivals and conventions and we average a decent amount of lessons without the requirement to be present each week.
I encourage creative practicing. During the school year most of my students squeeze their practice in during study halls or at night, but in the summer they can practice at whatever time of day feels right to them. Do they enjoy playing outside? Perfect for the nice weather and neighborhood enjoyment. Do they have a friend from school they could visit and practice with? Who says practice can’t be social sometimes! Do they hate sitting down for a full hour of practice? Divide it in half or thirds!
We have an end goal in mind. Although we are more relaxed in the summer, we’re still focused in lessons on moving forward in our skills. Having a recital at the end of the summer gives my students both an objective and something to look forward to. I make the recital on the same Sunday each year so that families know to plan for it well in advance.
We play something fun. I have a fairly structured curriculum I like to use in lessons, and although I adapt it to each student, they don’t always get to pick their repertoire. In the summer, I encourage them to find pop music, movie music or write down a song they like by ear that they could play at our recital. Getting to exercise choice after school and standardized testing season can feel like a real treat.
There are many applications of healthy constraints in our lives (personal boundaries being a great example) and in our practice rooms (using a timer and setting specific objectives for each session) but I was inspired to think a little differently about how constraints can help us by my old house and renovation projects.
When you live in a historic home built in 1900 or before, there are quirks - odd sized rooms, rules about keeping certain historical features, and old wiring are a few examples. Sometimes it just isn’t possible to change the space the way you might think is ideal, but there is always a creative solution to make the best of the space you have.
Having an old house is a lot like our playing and musicianship. The old foundation of how we’ve learned is there, but there is always a way to update the space and use our perspective and knowledge to make it better.
Our culture pushes make-your-own schedules, self-employment, and autonomy as the ultimate freedoms, but we’re missing the mark thinking that everything should be unbound. Healthy structures help us achieve our goals and enjoy the time we spend in work and activities.
Remember that even if you can't change your schedule, you can always exercise control over how you spend your time. Even if it’s just deciding how to divide those thirty minutes of practice.
Tuning is something I address often in my teaching, partially because I feel like it was missing in my early music education. With so many things to address in young players, it’s not surprising that intonation gets left for later.
As a young player I knew I didn’t really understand tuning. I could tell if something was really wrong, but I never knew if I was sharp or flat and it took me what felt like forever to remember if you push in to be more sharp or flat. (If you’re reading this and you don’t know: to make the instrument higher push in to be short and high like a piccolo; to make the instrument lower pull the headjoint out so the flute is longer and lower.)
What I did know as a young musician was that if I tried something - rolling in, rolling out, pushing the headjoint in or pulling it out, I could figure out the right way to adjust (it becomes pretty clear if you go the wrong way!)
A few of the tools that truly helped me along the way to develop practical skills and understanding of intonation were playing long tones with the tuner, harmonics, and playing duets with others.
My skill in intonation improved steadily but slowly as I went through high school and college. Along the way I learned the difficult lesson that if we play a note out of tune long enough, our ears memorize that incorrect tuning as where the note belongs.
For example, as flutists we often struggle with the intonation of notes that are quite flexible like C# and high G. Not only does that mean we end up memorizing the placement of those notes out of tune, but also that we memorize the distance of intervals involving those notes incorrectly as well.
As you might guess, one of my major tasks was to correct my ear’s memory. I needed to really understand where each note belonged.
I knew leaving undergrad that I was still facing much of this task, and during my Master’s degree my teacher Stephanie Jutt helped me tremendously with this by catching the places where I had a wrong relationship memorized, and by reinforcing the usefulness of playing with a drone.
Using a drone for practice was not new to me, but making a point to do it consistently was. Like most things that are worthwhile, it takes time and patience to start to hear more intricately what is happening with tuning beyond just the large, glaring discrepancies. Although it may seem mundane, one of the greatest benefits of doing scales and chords with a drone is learning to hear and feel the correct relationships between the notes in a scale, a chord, or a specific interval.
When I was in school we used “The Tuning CD” (yes it was an actual CD) which had midi versions of chords that you could play along with. It worked, but if you’re familiar with earlier midi sounds, it wasn’t the most pleasant thing to listen to for a long period of time.
One of my favorite resources for playing with a drone now in teaching and my own practice is on Spotify (and probably other music services, although I haven't checked): Cello Drones for Tuning and Improvisation.
Playing with the cello sound is not only more pleasant than midi, but I think comparing our tuning to a natural timbre is helpful with providing perspective on how tone color and quality can impact our intonation.
When we practice with a drone, or any time we practice intonation, the activity we’re taking part is a simple and obvious one: listening.
What makes this particular type of listening so different from our day to day listening is the depth we are cultivating. When we intently listen with intonation in mind, we are listening for the slightest variance we can detect in that moment. We are actively growing our capacity to hear smaller and smaller details.
Intonation is all about relationships.
We can’t tell if we’re in tune or not if there is nothing to make a comparison to. When we are playing by ourselves, this means we need those note-to-note relationships to be accurate, and we need to use them as a guide. When we play with others, it means committing to listening without making the assumption that we’re the one who is right and then being willing to adjust as necessary.
A willingness to listen deeply and adjust are the prerequisites for good intonation.
Ultimately, this requires us to get outside of ourselves and experience what we’re hearing both intellectually and physically (Most of us have encountered the physical feelings of dissonance - when you can actually feel the vibration of the notes fighting against each other).
Playing in tune also requires us to let go - to release the previous placement of notes that we committed to if we can learn a new and better way. And, to let go of the need to be right (does it matter if your intonation is right if you sticking to where you put the note makes everyone sound bad?).
Being a musician who plays with good intonation looks a lot like being a human who plays well with others - both require us to learn to trust ourself and our ears fully but not blindly.
As I was sitting here staring at a blank page thinking and thinking about how I didn’t have anything to write, it occurred to me how much time I spend thinking so hard about so many different things that don’t really matter very much, or maybe aren't even real.
Why did that one G come out so funny in rehearsal last week? Why do I feel so disorganized about what I need to practice? Why can’t I remember to water my plants? Why didn’t I plan better before I went grocery shopping this week?
I would guess not everyone does this to the same extremes, but I’m also pretty sure I’m not alone in the amount of brain space and time I can spend considering a lot of important (and unimportant) things ad nauseam.
A few days ago I caught myself doing this while I was practicing. I’ve written about different scenarios of this before, but for some reason it sparked a light bulb moment this week, even though I’ve already experienced similar realizations. (We keep being given the same messages until we learn what we need from them, I think.)
When I’ve written about this before it was about overthinking that happens when we have so much on our to-do lists that we catastrophize all of it to the point of not being able to get started. My experience this week was different in a subtle, but important way.
As I was practicing, I was honed in on something that felt a little weird or “off” in my playing - something that, I kept thinking, I should be able to do effortlessly and that I shouldn’t ever have to think about at this point. I caught myself thinking that this particular aspect of my playing was so solid and easy before, how could I have regressed so that it wasn’t?
As I was ruminating, out of nowhere and for a brief moment, I had a sliver of outside perspective. I remembered the reality of previous practice sessions days, months, and even years ago. I realized that I might not have been paying much attention to this aspect of my playing before, but that wasn’t because it was perfect. I remembered clearly other times that I had off-days with this particular skill.
This tiny moment of clarity allowed the thought fog to lift and reminded me that we really can’t believe everything we think.
I had been understandably frustrated with something that doesn’t usually require my attention, but in allowing my frustration to run rampant I had started telling myself stories that went well beyond the actual experience at hand about my abilities, approach, and playing without even realizing how far into the fabricated future I was letting my thoughts travel.
Even though this experience was subtle, it felt like a huge step forward. How long would I have created unnecessary frustration and distraction over this issue in my practice if I hadn’t been able to see what was happening with a wider perspective?
I believe whole heartedly that mindfulness meditation is what has created an increasing number of these very subtle “ah-ha” moments for me both in music and life.
Much like practicing our instruments, practicing mindfulness can seem slow to progress and sometimes tedious, but the growth is always available to you if you are willing to stick with the practice.
How aware are you of your thoughts in the practice room?
Can you really see where the division is between what’s happening now in the moment and what you’re predicting about the future?
How could you strengthen your mind to see the moment clearly?
I had a great conversation with a friend this week where we were discussing right effort, the way our thoughts shape our actions, and specifically, how we use our thinking to avoid challenges and challenging work.
It was a little light bulb moment for me about how what might feel like a persistent self-critical train of thought might actually be a sneaky method of avoidance.
Think about how often we make critical statements about ourselves in our thoughts. We see someone performing well and think we can’t, or we look at someone who is in shape and think we could never manage the self discipline. Perhaps when you are practicing you have thoughts that some aspect of your playing will just never be very strong.
In some ways these thoughts can feel helpful, even productive. It feels like we are identifying the places we are deficient, that we are creating a laundry list of ways we’d like to be better, and selecting things we will work on later (probably).
But are we really creating a productive task list? Or are we repeating a predictable, easy list of “things to do” that makes us feel like we’re getting somewhere, substituting it for actionable steps or objectives?
Being a good musician requires us to think critically, but the quality of the feedback we are giving ourself matters.
The next time you catch yourself thinking a generic critical statement in the practice room, see if you can catch it and challenge yourself to go deeper. Not just identifying what is bad, but really naming the specifics - what do you want to change and how you could do that. Even if you don't land on the right solution on the first try, which we usually don't, you're moving in a productive direction.
Do your best to keep seeing the moment in depth, and try to stop those generic critical thoughts from pulling you off track.
Have a clear intention for your actions and keep looking close to avoid getting caught up in generalities.
Of course this isn’t as easy as just saying something needs work and moving on like we regularly might. Our usual laundry list of critiques does serve a purpose - it lets us feel like we are accomplishing something.
Changing our habits and getting to the root of our critical thoughts doesn’t have to be painful, though. In fact, I think it should be the opposite. As we start to see the results of employing truly critical thinking, we’re motivated to keep up the good work. You might even feel less bad overall because you are no longer simply identifying things you don’t like about yourself or your habits.
Creating a healthier approach to critical thinking comes from right effort, curiosity, mindfulness, and a willingness to sit with some discomfort. By making our efforts more intentional we can have a more equanimous approach to ourselves and the things that are important to us.
Have you ever heard your teachers say their goal is for you to “teach yourself”?
It’s a common goal in music for teachers to discuss this concept, because at some point every student steps out on their own without a teacher they see each week to keep them on track. Although we can always choose to work with a teacher, no one knows us better than ourself. We all become independent learners at some point.
When we’re a student, growing the ability to teach ourself can look like taking our teacher’s advice about practice techniques, time management, listening, etc., and learning how to apply it appropriately in the practice room. During this time in our development, we still get to check in each week to make sure we’ve applied the tools correctly and are moving in the appropriate direction.
What about after school? We don't all go into teaching, but I've learned a lot about teaching myself from teaching others. I view my students very objectively - my goal is always to really see and hear what they are doing, notice what is holding them back, and find creative solutions that work for them specifically. (i.e. My mean inner critic never comes out when I’m listening to a student the way it does when I’m “teaching” myself.)
Beyond the reality that we are much meaner to ourselves than we are to others, there’s also the fact that we usually learn to guide ourselves at the same time we lose both our access to private lessons and the structure of music school. When it’s up to us to create our learning structure, that can prove a large hurdle in itself.
So when we really get down to practicing and improving on our own, how can we balance (or just plain shush) the inner critic who always has a lot of mean and distracting things to say but not nearly enough productive feedback to give?
I think there’s something missing from the whole process of the way that we are taught to approach teaching ourselves, and how we are taught to manage our fear and self criticism from the beginning.
This is a recent realization for me, brought on by a truly inspirational session of George Mumford’s mindful athlete course. During that particular session, it came up for a few people that they still feel so much doubt or anxiety doing the things they are skilled at. That as we build skill and expertise, we can often feel even more susceptible to outer judgement, and especially to self criticism.
In these scenarios where we know that we are able to do something, but afraid to realize our inner masterpiece (as George calls it), we can feel paralyzed. How do we keep moving toward our goals without getting distracted from right effort by our doubt and self criticism?
When we’re really being vulnerable and pushing ourselves it can often feel like our faith or trust in ourselves, and what we’re doing, has vanished. We can be distracted by the difficulty and demand of what we are trying to do. What we need is to cultivate trust in ourselves, our performance, our message, and our ability to show up in the way we need to.
Personally, I can feel overwhelmed by perfectionist thoughts, and this understanding that the mental barrier is arising from vulnerability and trying something challenging makes it easier to address.
How do we address it exactly, though? How do we cultivate trust?
See the moment in depth:
* Either reflect back on when you challenged yourself and felt vulnerable or try to experience that moment deeply in real time.
* Were you scared the entire time? As you look deeper, you will realize that there is a lot more nuance to it than that.
* Are you self critical the entire time? Or can you look with more intention to see beyond the self criticism and notice all the ways you know to help yourself practice well and grow your playing.
* As you start to see the truth in depth, see your fear and your inner critic, and also see how they intertwine with the entirety of your experience.
As you start to become aware of the truth - the depth of your experience - you will become more relaxed and observant which allows you to move forward moment by moment, doing what you know to do. You can focus on right effort.
Teaching ourselves is an exercise in mindfulness - how are we speaking to ourselves? What are we paying attention to, and do we need to shift our attention? How are deeply are we experiencing the moment?
The objective is not to remove our doubt, but to make doubt the tool for learning. Know that doubt shows you where you can grow.
At some point during the same session of the Mindful Athlete George said, “when you want to learn something, teach it.”
What better way could there be to grow as a musician than to learn to mindfully teach ourself?
I have been reading, and thinking, a lot about time lately. Then again, doesn’t it always seem like we are thinking about time?
How much can I get done today, how much is left to do, there’s not enough time to cook or do laundry, how many more students could I teach, etc…
I’ve just started reading Four Thousand Weeks by Oliver Burkeman, and already it has made me reconsider the way we perceive time and how we’ve come to interact with time the way we do.
Just before starting this book, I had a conversation with my husband that I never imagined I would have - I actually said out loud that I would like to be less busy.
As musicians, we’re primed from an early age to know how to be busy successfully, and that to be busy is to be successful. But lately, as my plates continue to fill with activities that feel an awful lot like busywork, I’m wondering how much of that actually equals success?
If I am constantly teaching but never have time for the deep, intensive practice that is required to perform the way I want I am busy, and maybe successful? What if I consider the type of students am I teaching, how well I am teaching, and how much my performance abilities suffer - do I still feel successful?
If I never have time to sit down and flesh out new ideas for classes and workshops or to codify what I am learning from teaching and performing, I am definitely busy but what about successful?
If I can’t enjoy time with my family or doing activities I love because I am working so much, it’s possible I am both busy and successful, but not content.
All of these questions are very personal - we all want different things, and we've all reached varying levels of achievement to this point.
As I was reading Four Thousand Weeks last night, I came across two passages in the book that really made me pause:
“…you have too much to do, so you try to fit more in, but the ironic result is that you end up with more to do. The worst aspect of the [efficiency] trap is, though, is that it’s also a matter of quality. The harder you struggle to fit everything in, the more of your time you’ll find yourself spending on the least meaningful things.”
“The more firmly you believe it ought to be possible to find time for everything, the less pressure you’ll feel to ask whether any given activity is the best use of a portion of your time.”
I can relate to these statements at my core. I’ve had that feeling so often that time is slipping away and that I never quite get enough done to really treat myself to spending time on the important stuff.
It’s exactly how I was feeling when I said I’d like to be less busy (it’s still seems weird to say that out loud!). Isn’t that why we work so hard in the first place? Not to add more to our plates, but to be able to choose what’s on it in the first place.
Even in just the first few chapters of Four Thousand Weeks, Burkeman makes the point that as we get more skilled and gain more resources our culture does not reward us with time - it rewards us with more to do and higher demands.
I feel a strong urge to release things right now - even some good things - to have space. Space to be still, to sit and think, to practice and not be rushed.
What would it be like if we weren’t constantly chained to exterior time keepers like the demands of others and the sense that we need to be everywhere and everything to be worthwhile? I think it would feel luxurious, and probably also incredibly challenging because it would require directly opposing the cultural norm: busy = value.
Isn’t it interesting, too, that just talking about doing less sounds lazy, selfish, and entitled? Or at least that’s how I’m feeling talking about it. Not to mention the financial factor here - there’s only so much we can choose not to do before the bills pile up, so some of this is daydreaming for sure.
And still, I’d like to cancel a few things this week. Free up some time to practice, to plan, to write…maybe even to do nothing.
Is there a way to shift how we relate to time in our current culture? I’m not sure, but it’s fun to think about.
Hi, I'm Morgann! Flutist, teacher, aspiring yogini, and life long learner figuring out how to create my way through life one crazy idea at a time.