All the Things I Didn't Do Today

On Rest and Fallow Seasons

I didn’t work on my novel today. I’m not sure what scene to write next.

I didn’t go on a run today. My ankle hurts, and it’s cold outside.

I didn’t read a book today. None of the stories are holding my attention.

I didn’t eat a salad today. I ate a plate of nachos and drank a beer instead.

I didn’t respond to an email today. I don’t have enough fucks left today to write ‘Sincerely’ and mean it.

I didn’t walk the dog today. It’s raining and there are puddles in the street.

I didn’t do the dishes today. They’re soaking in the sink.

I didn’t change out of my pajamas today. There’s no point in putting on jeans and a bra when you’re not planning on leaving the house.

I didn’t leave the house today.

I worry sometimes that I’ve forgotten the pleasure of doing nothing. Of lingering in a moment and watching tiny birds flit around in the holly bush outside my window. Of staring at a wall and not a screen. Of being alone with my thoughts. Of simply existing.

There are metrics everywhere I look. Words written. Returns on investments. Calories eaten. Minutes spent exercising. Minutes spent scrolling. Day job metrics that make no real sense but you have to pretend you care if you want to keep the job.

Some days it feels like I’m chasing something I’m never going to catch up to.

But I like being busy.

Reading articles about productivity hacks is a guilty pleasure for me.

But I worry. I worry that by staying so busy I’m trying to outrun my own mortality. Like if I do enough of all the things, I will go on living forever, and I will be able to keep doing all the things.

(Picture me 100 years from now working on my 100th novel. Finally, finally, I think, I am out of ideas. And then I overhear a conversation at a coffee shop about a man who sold his soul to the devil, but now the devil wants to give it back, and I sigh and think, one more year, just this one, and then I will rest.)

Maybe that’s why we have fallow seasons. Seasons where the light lessens and the bare-limbed trees remind us that it is okay to do nothing for a while. Maybe we need to sometimes sit with the idea of this all ending, of us ending, so that when tomorrow brightens and we rise from our beds and brew our tea, we will fully understand the joy of doing.

What a gift it is.

To write a new scene.

To run with my breath puffing clouds.

To read a beautiful sentence.

To eat.

To reply.

To walk.

To do.

To change.

To leave the house and find a whole world outside waiting for me whenever I am ready to bloom again.

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wander on, my friends

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