in defence of pleasure

yin, yang

A Thorn Amidst the Roses, 1887, by James Sant (1820-1916)

I took my 10 year old cousin to the ballet last night and she asked me: what do you do in your free time? I told her a long list of balanced activities, each one symbolizing a pillar of my life I had so proudly curated and tended to over the years. Exercise. Knowledge. Creation. Social time. I noticed as I shared my answer that I was pretty pleased with it, content with how dynamically I spent my time these days.

I then asked her the same question. She shrugged and said, “Reading, mostly.”

Her simple answer took me back to a time where my answer had been the same: a time when if I wasn’t doing school work or gymnastics or socializing, I was probably reading. I loved reading, I looked forward to it. It was an Event. At some point, that narrative changed and reading started to feel like something I Had To Do to be smart or use my time well, which reduced the natural joy I had always gotten from just doing it for pleasure. Making it something I had to do didn’t quite allow it to be something I got to do in the same way.

This backwards narrative was reflected back to me in the clear eyes of my cousin who was excitedly telling me how she was going to reread the Harry Potter books she had finished two years ago just for fun. It made me reflect on when the last time I properly reread a book was just because I felt like it, and how a part of me still vestigially viewed doing so as somehow unproductive, not a good enough use of my time or attention, which then limited my ability to enjoy doing so, for I had an imposed an implicit judgement on myself as I did. But here was a clear, unconditioned mind just glimmering with the joy and enthusiasm we all feel when reading something we love staring back at me—and it made me wonder: when did I start treating reading as a chore, instead of the precious pleasure it actually is?

*

I’ve been working quite hard lately. I can feel that, see it in the slightly deepened lines under my eyes and, more acutely, in the pace at which I go about things. When all I was doing was writing, I could move at a pace that earnestly puzzled people, and sometimes even myself. It didn’t strike me as odd at all to go about a day without doing much at all, except paying attention to things I was interested in, wandering through the city, imagining things, sometimes writing them down, sometimes not. I didn’t let myself think too much about where it was all leading. There wasn’t an ongoing tracker of output and productivity ticking in my mind. As much as I could, I kept those thoughts to a minimum; and reserved my attention for enjoyment, presence, and ease.

At some point, the dynamics between Being/Doing, Working/Playing, Wandering/Striving sort of shifted, in a way that overall I am quite happy with. I feel very aligned with everything I spend time on now. I might be working hard or working often, but the work feels so different than what work used to feel like. I think this must be some universal shift that happens when you begin actualizing your own ideas instead of bringing others’ into the world. I genuinely love what I do now. I think realizing that I have actually got here — to this place I wanted to be so badly; one where I love what I do, where it feels easy to work, where the effort and ease fuse into each other, will be something I will be piecing together for perhaps my entire life.

Because of that, I don’t have any qualms with what I am doing or how much I am doing it. What I am becoming more attuned to, though, is my increasing level of comfort without days of pure, absent minded wandering. And while this awareness had been crawling to the surface of my consciousness for some time, it was finally revealed to me in the innocent eyes of this young girl sitting in front of me, who seemed to be more excited about rereading Harry Potter than I probably seemed to be about almost anything in my life.

*

I woke up today, slowly. Much slower than usual. I peeked at the time as my eyes fluttered open and it was about 45 minutes later than usual. I closed my eyes and let myself fall back asleep. I rose after this second sleep even more slowly, and began to gently float towards the morning tasks I would typically rush through or sometimes even skip. I began cleaning my kitchen, making coffee, unloading the dishes, watering the plants, playing soft jazz in the background as I moved softly, without the haste I had gotten used to letting propel me through my routine.

My day continued at this same pace. I went on a walk without my phone as I try to do whenever I can afford to forget about the time, I got some groceries, lead a session, wrote out some thoughts, showered, and began moving towards some other tasks I had to do, ones that I wouldn’t typically classify as “important enough”, or “deserving of the best hours of my attention.” I began making a salad for a potluck I am gong to this evening, preparing dough for scones I’ll be making for some friends tomorrow. I savoured these small acts instead of rushing through them, and realized just how rarely I have been allowing myself the luxury to do so. I listened to a podcast that fascinated me, another indulgence I don’t lean into as much anymore. I made and set aside a bread starter that I’ll use to turn into dough tomorrow. Feeling a little more inspired than usual by these acts, I drifted over to the keyboard and started to type these thoughts out. Funny how sometimes surrendering the need to do anything at all is what leads you to do the thing you’re often convincing yourself to do, isn’t it?

In the midst of this stream of ‘slowing down’ activities — baking, walking, cleaning, tending to the home — I noticed how time seemed to be moving differently, how it was sweeter, softer. How it didn’t feel as jerky and sharp as it usually would if I was in a rush, keeping track of everything I needed to do, without a sense for how I was feeling while doing those things.

I took a break from writing to do my hair, my make up, pick an outfit for the evening. I am back now, because I have somehow done everything I intended to do, and have time to spare? Despite moving more slowly than usual and intentionally doing things I might usually neglect? And I’m thinking to myself: when was the last time I have been able to move through a day so slowly, so presently that I have the time to write, polish and post a piece before a dinner party?

The thought makes me yearn for a time where I didn’t feel the need to recite a laundry list of things that I do in my “free time” to sound (or, perhaps more accurately: feel) balanced and important and smart and creative. For a time where I would do what I knew I needed to do, and then curl up with a book at night, eager to see where the story I was invested in would go. And then, when I was tired, when my eyes were shutting and I couldn’t get the words on the page back into focus, I would go to sleep, without glancing at a screen or a set of notifications before I did. A time where it was mostly just me, my imagination and whatever force was pulling me somewhere interesting and new. I recognize, too, the perks of being in the chapter I am in now, of having my time stretched a little thin in service of creating things I am proud of and doing work that lights me up. A time where I have more responsibilities and I tend to my ideas in a different way than I would when they would mostly be provoked by just reading in my bed at night. I do not wish to take anything away from the yang part of my process, something I have worked to cultivate and am grateful to do each day. All I want is to remind myself (and perhaps you, too) about how equally essential it is, to make space for the yin; the place where our ideas ripen, our thoughts soften, and time slows down.

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