I left my job at the end of June, after an intense year leading the content department of a start-up. I didn’t trade it in for another one; I’m not jumping into something new. I’m taking a summer vacation.
The first two weeks into my break, assuaged my fears that: 1.) my day would go off the rails without any external tracks determining my direction, and 2.) the gaping space that 8-10 hours of work once filled would leave a hollowness, a painful dry socket, and ennui would quickly set in. So far, I’ve had enough to do and everything gets done as and when it needs to, without super-imposing a schedule upon it.
Like this morning. I was fixing a cup of tea and as I waited for the water to boil, I transferred the loose tea leaves from the brown paper bag they came in to an airtight canister to deflect Hawai’i’s most formidable opponents: mold and critters. I reached into the junk drawer where I keep little cardboard tags to label my growing collection of things in jars. I couldn’t find the tags after some rooting around, so I took everything out of the drawer to see better.
Laying it all on the counter in the light of day confirmed that most of the things in that drawer were categorized correctly: junk. I threw out the corroded batteries, empty lighters, old spicy mustard packets from Panda Express, and the twisty ties from bread bags that seem like they’ll come in handy way more often than they actually do. I organized the spare keys and chip clips and mini tools. I wiped down the dust and grime and gathered up the boll weevils that had made their way into the dark corners and expired.
Half an hour later, I hadn’t found the tags and the hot water had gone cold, but now the junk drawer, which would have menaced my to-do list for weeks with the weight of this undesirable task, is cleaned out. (The same drawer that the cleaning lady I hired once at the height of my work overwhelm refused to touch.)
And during the process, which I would have gritted my teeth throughout because this chore was preventing me from doing something more desirable (like that old homework-before-play rule), was enjoyable. I had the time and I met the moment with what it demanded, with no calcified resistance to color my feelings about it.
I have no job, but this is work shifting into a new way of being. My nervous system is down-regulating from the default urgency of doing and I’m showing up uncharacteristically without advanced preparation. I’m trusting that I’ll know what to do when it’s time to do it, without my usual agonizing deliberation.
This is how a cat lives: allowing its current mood or the state of its environment to move it to action. When the sunshine beckons me outside, I will go. When the rain suggests an extra layer or pajamas all day, I will listen. When sleep calls me — even in the middle of the day — I will oblige.
Most afternoons, no matter how much (or little) I’ve exerted myself that day or how well-rested I felt upon waking, I am overtaken by tiredness by 2 or 3 pm. I don’t flood my brain with caffeine to combat it and willfully push through like I used to. I don’t berate myself. I slip between the sheets and take a nap. When I wake up naturally, my body is restored. Sometimes it’s 20 minutes, sometimes 45. It doesn’t matter.
It takes however long it takes.
It’s a relief to release the imposition of my will, to not have to force anything. (Did Sisyphus ever realize all he had to do to end the torture is let go? A slide is way more fun than a ladder.) Everything that needs to get done will. Clothes get washed. Dentist appointments get booked. Meals get cooked… and from a place of inspiration rather than obligation.
Life is becoming more easeful as I become more present to it. And I’m discovering the quality of my presence. It is gentle, quiet, steady, calm. In slowing down, I’m learning how to follow my own timing and my natural rhythm is developing, like a heartbeat, without me efforting to control it.
I know this time is an incredible gift (as all time is), and that I’m fortunate to be able to take a break beyond the pittance of a PTO allotment — and that having PTO in the first place is a luxury many don’t have. For most people, including myself for most of my life, a regular paycheck(s) is required to meet basic daily needs. Especially for those who have a family relying on them to fulfill their first three rungs of Maslow’s hierarchy. And in exchange, the pursuit of self-actualization, the peak of that triangle (perhaps Sisyphus’ unreachable final destination?), is often postponed to retirement years or sacrificed altogether to meet the demands of keeping children alive and well and relatively well-adjusted.
Every choice we make has a tradeoff.
I’m grateful to all those who came before me and made that sacrifice, consciously or not, so that I could be here, cleaning out my junk drawer in the middle of a Tuesday. Making an intentional choice about what goes, what stays, what was wishful thinking when stored away, and what is there due to pure laziness. Choosing time affluence in this period of my life over money.
For the first 25 years of my working life, I chose to pursue money. Well, framing it as a choice might be generous. I over-surrendered to the riptide of our culture that seemed impossible to swim against. (And in my 20s, I tried swimming against it anyway, until I exhausted myself with my thrashing.) I allowed the current to take me and eventually found myself on foreign shores, a long way from home.
This summer vacation is an exercise in open water swimming, front crawling parallel to the shore in an attempt to escape the deadly hold of the riptide and make my way back to the undiscovered island of the Self. There are more questions than answers, sure, but a proportionate amount of acceptance of the unknown and a willingness to release the striving to figure it all out.
Just being here, fully here in this ocean of hours, gently expanding with each inhale and exhale, is enough.
P.S.
Special thanks to my latest paid subscribers!
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This newsletter has been a real labor of love for the past two years, and while the love is still there, your contributions make the labor part feel worthwhile. Not in the dollar-and-cents wage sense, but as a symbolic acknowledgment that you’ve received the energy and care I put into creating these.
It feels a bit like getting to watch you open a gift I thoughtfully selected and carefully wrapped just for you, and seeing the smile spread across your face as you reveal the surprise of what’s inside. Thank you for giving me the pleasure of writing for you.
And thank you to everyone who has been reading, sharing, and commenting on my writing throughout this journey. You’ve helped to fertilize this little sprout of creativity that has sustained me during the many seasons of the last two years.
Credits
Highway Anxiety by William Tyler.
You can listen to the full With Aloha playlist here.
A period of deep repose