Thoughts on Productivity

Admittedly, I am in love with my life.

I know it isn’t a life that my children seem to understand nor is it one that the average Joe lives, but I love it just this way: the way that it is. I do wish, however, that my feelings about my own existence were not under such constant scrutiny from my own conscience.

I am supposed to be productive.
I am supposed to clean my house – regularly and thoroughly.
I am supposed to exercise.
I am supposed to eat healthfully.

Some of the shoulds that I nag myself with make more sense to me than others, so I embrace them, in moderation. But the vast majority of my days are pissed away in a decadent state: feet up on the couch, video game or computer screen in front of me, a drink by my side (coffee, water, red wine, as the day progresses), and snacks. Here at my summer cottage I break up the bliss with wanderings around my yard, watering and picking as the need arises, though I am very comfortable in putting off the picking until tomorrow.

The watering has turned into somewhat of a grind. I find myself resenting its necessity, though I am too compelled to nurture living things to allow my resentment to kill them off. I made a commitment when I planted. I am bound to the commitments I make. It's my only curse.

But aside from watering plants that appear too desperate to wait, there is almost nothing I cannot justify postponing. The box of hair dye has been perched on the bathroom sink for two days. Today may be the day. Or not. Roots be damned. And I’ve stepped over that basil leaf in the middle of the living room floor at least three times now. I’ll get it, eventually. Probably. Even brushing my teeth can be put off. Nearly nothing matters enough, right now, to be done.

And in the freedom of my apparent lethargy I step out of the billowing curtains into the brilliant heat of a late morning sun and I spot a sailboat on the bay. Through my enormous black binoculars I spy on the couple stealing a kiss and laughing. And there on the bay the sunlight is glittering in a way it has never done before nor will it ever – exactly - do again. And I hear a woman’s voice behind me. She is some four hundred feet away, down and across my lagoon, and she’s on a phone saying,

“Hello? Hello? Can you hear me now?” and I cannot help but laugh out loud and my guffaws echo, as all sounds do here on the water.

Who takes the time to notice these things? Who has the time to take? Just me.

Doing nothing is a great counter balance to my anxiety disorder, but occasionally I worry that my GAD isn’t my only issue. I worry that I may be seriously depressed. After all, who but a seriously depressed person can do as little as I do? Comparing myself to the industrious lives of my dear friends leaves me wanting for some stronger direction of motion, a clear motivation, and some ostensible sign of success (or at least progress). What good am I doing for my world? What contribution can I point to?

Today’s soft end-of-summer breeze blows such concerns away. They can only beg at the question of why my doing nothing is any less valuable than their doing something. Who made these rules? Who set us up this way? Why is humankind so obsessed with “doing” anyway?

The rest of our animal kingdom live simple lives. Birds may build nests in the spring and conscientiously feed their young, but by and large a bird’s life is about eating, singing, and maybe flying south in the winter. There they will eat and sing and hang out with their friends.

I like the sound of that.

I know I am blessed to have a home – two homes actually – and enough money to buy the spare food required to maintain my thirty pounds of overweight. I come and go at my leisure, volunteering at the theater to satisfy my altruism as well as catching free shows to sustain my cultural side. I cook creatively; using many ingredients I’ve grown and harvested myself. Today I made a breakfast quiche and mixed up some crab cakes for later. I used home grown red and green tomatoes, fresh parsley, red and green peppers… there will be fresh mint in my iced tea as I dangle my toes in the pool. I feel like a Princess, yet I live on a budget that the government says is below the poverty line.

In the midst of this economic downturn I would ask, what more does a person want? What more does a person need? Why are all the people around me working so diligently? To what possible end?

The sound of salt water lapping at my bulkhead and the scream of a laughing gull flying overhead: these things ease my soul and whisper “This is enough”.

If I hit the lottery tomorrow, my life would barely change. I’d be able to stop stressing about which bill to pay, but my GAD would haunt my nights none the less. At least I would be sure that there would indeed be enough money to feed me when I am ninety. Aside from that, I have absolutely no interest in increasing my consumption or raising my standard of living. I don’t feel any desire to dress any “better” or have a fancier car. I most certainly would invest in one of those automatic watering systems so I could sleep in on the hot summer mornings when the plants dry out before 9:00 am. But other than that I would be completely happy to eat, sing, and fly south in the cold weather... perhaps north in the hot weather, east when Parisian baguettes call to me, and west when only authentic Pad Thai will do.

Really though, most of that I have already done... so, like I said, I love my life.

Death in a small town

OMG... the guy who came to look at Sue and Bruce's house this morning is back this evening... with his WIFE! OMG... Do I smell an offer in the works?

And do we care that Bruce's ashes have not yet cooled?

Two weekends ago, Bruce died (in the bath tub) across the street. I know they had talked about selling their house down here in the fall - it's a second home for them and they'd had enough - but who would have thought that Sue would march on with her life in such short order?

Not me.

I don't mean that I wouldn't have thought it about SUE. Geeze... I hardly even know Sue... but could I have EVER, not in a million years, marched on with MY life, 2 1/2 weeks after my Joe died?

It does give one pause... I mean... really... what IS the difference? None. Certainly not to Bruce. He's gone. Gone, gone, gone...

I don't thing that Bruce - or Joe - have much of anything to do with it. It comes down to how a widow wants to live her life, after his death.

I've chosen my route and Sue has chosen hers and... gulp... maybe her way is actually better?

Just a thought...

xoxo

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