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Energy Makes Time

 

I often find myself listening as someone talks about being out of time. I don’t want to demean any time-management tactics out there. My philosophy is to accept any and all tools, to tuck them into the toolbox until such time as they seem fit. Most of the recommended habits will work, at least some of the time. Sometimes blocking off some time on your calendar is exactly what you need. Sometimes shifting your schedule or skipping some meetings or putting yourself to bed on time does the trick. Knowing which trick you need now—and which one you’ll need next time—comes with experience and the kind of situational awareness that can be cultivated with (wait for iiiiit…) time.

But there’s something else I want to suggest here, and it’s to stop thinking about time entirely. Or, at least, to stop thinking about time as something consistent. We all know that time can be stretchy or compressed—we’ve experienced hours that plodded along interminably and those that whisked by in a few breaths. We’ve had days in which we got so much done we surprised ourselves and days where we got into a staring contest with the to-do list and the to-do list didn’t blink. And we’ve also had days that left us puddled on the floor and days that left us pumped up, practically leaping out of our chairs. What differentiates these experiences isn’t the number of hours in the day but the energy we get from the work. Energy makes time.

Here’s a concrete example, and perhaps a familiar one: someone is so busy with work and caretaking that they don’t make time for their art. At the end of the day they’re too tired to write or paint or make music or whathaveyou. So they don’t. Days, then weeks go by. They are more and more tired. They are getting less and less done. They take a mental health day and catch up on sleep but the exhaustion persists. Their overwhelm grows larger, becomes intolerable. The usual tactics don’t work.

Then one day they say fuck it all. They eat leftover pasta over the sink, drop mom off at her mahjongg game, and go sit in the park to draw. They draw for hours, until the sun goes down and they’re squinting under the street lights. And, lo and behold, the next day they plow through all those lingering to-dos. They see clearly that half of them were unnecessary when before they all seemed critical. They recognize a few others as things better handed off to their peers. They suddenly find time for attending to that one project they’d been procrastinating on for weeks. They sleep better. Their skin looks great. (Okay I might be exaggerating on that last one, but only mildly.)

It turns out, not doing their art was costing them time, was draining it away, little by little, like a slow but steady leak. They had assumed, wrongly, that there wasn’t enough time in the day to do their art, because they assumed (because we’re conditioned to assume) that every thing we do costs time. But that math doesn’t take energy into account, doesn’t grok that doing things that energize you gives you time back. By doing their art, a whole lot of time suddenly returned. Their art didn’t need more time; their time needed their art.

I’m using art here, because in my experience, most people have something shaped like that in their lives—some thing that when neglected siphons time and energy away but when attended to delivers it in droves. But you can substitute art for whatever activity or habit leaves you more energized, gives you that time back: puzzle night with your BFFs, organizing your colleagues, working a shift at the community garden, baking cookies for the block party, going to the woods, touching grass and all that.

The question to ask with all those things isn’t, “how do I make time for this?” The answer to that question always disappoints, because that view of time has it forever speeding away from you. The better question is, how does doing what I need make time for everything else?

-- from an essay by Mandy Brown

Laughter Is Good Medicine

and

Paris

 

Biking in Paris was a joy. Cycling to and from Domaine du Courances was a joy.

 

Mokonuts was a joy. The Mosque of Paris' tearoom was a joy. Ratatouille in a pita at Miznon was a joy.

Reading under the willow on the Île de la Cité in the rain was a joy. Boating by houseboats was a joy. Walking the Petite Ceinture of the 16th was a joy.

Covid at long last? Not a joy.

Tender Grit

 

"A bruised reed [she] will not break, and a faintly burning wick [she] will not quench." 

- Book of Isaiah

Summer Grasses

 

This year we had two glorious months of spring-- twice as long as usual to gobble up and savor afternoon thunder storms, the profusion of wildflowers, the smell of lilacs in the cool air. 

When I finally ventured out with camera and intention in tow to capture the wonder of it all, the change of seasons had already come and gone-- sudden and complete. 

And just as startling as when spring arrived after the long winter months. May's colors are now faded, washed out by the noonday sun. 

Yet summer arrives with its own magic-- the susurrus of dry grasses moving in the wind, the passing shade of a cloud overhead, that ineffable smell of leisure (some combination of sunscreen, beach towels, swimming holes and bicycles).

Goldfish

 

Japanese artist, Riusuke Fukahori's subject is goldfish and through goldfish, humans in the age of climate change.