
Nearly four weeks ago, the coffee shop that my husband and I own and operate closed for the Winter. This is the first time in 11 years that we have made this choice. I am the baker, cook, manager, and problem-solver most days, so awakening the next morning at the usual time of four a.m. with no place to go and “nothing to do” prompted giddiness, but also a sense of being untethered, an astronaut floating through space, disconnected from their station.
The lead-up to the closing date last month was full of anticipation and excitement in the giant chunks of time I would have to work my way down a long list of household tasks that never seem to get done, because we’re never home, and when we are, we’re pooped. First on the list, Clean the House. Room by room. Because days off are golden, I choose not to spend that time cleaning, except for the barest minimum, especially in Summer which is short here in Maine and meant to be enjoyed.
Five days into this break, I realized that I had done very little except scroll and binge on British murder mysteries. I did some of the usual barest minimum cleaning, but then I would fritter hours away, uncomfortable but without a word for what I was feeling. One afternoon as I was staring out across the street, watching a huge flock of resident pigeons at our one small motel attempt and fail at murmurating, I found myself on a hot July afternoon, age eight or so, at the end of my endless frustration rope, saying to my mother for the 19 th time that day, “But there’s nothing TO DOOOOOOOOO….”. This was quickly cured by my mother with a chore, usually husking corn or cleaning the bathroom sink.
“Idle hands are the devil’s handiwork.” That phrase, too, keeps echoing in my empty mind as I sit in this discomfort of boredom. It isn’t comfortable as an adult to daydream. That activity is a quick path to restlessness and dis-ease for me. I’ve always been busy, up against deadlines of one sort or another, be it a short-term urgent bedside evaluation of a a patient, or an omelet to-go for a coffee shop customer running late. Now, there aren’t any of those pressures, except those that are self-imposed and thus a bit mushy, and prone to the distractions that are scrolling and “The Middle” reruns.
But that empty activity only adds to my global discomfort. I am aware that in the immediate term, an itch is scratched; the dopamine surge happens, but then I am back to my boredom dis-ease, arguably even more uncomfortable than before, because now I’m judging myself for succumbing to the mindless, and mixing that into the stew of the “should”-ing that often accompanies boredom. You’ve met this actor: “you should be cleaning SOMETHING. You should do laundry to catch-up. You should go for a dog walk instead of sitting here staring out the window.” And on and on.
I do remember actual daydreaming as a kid. That switch seemed to be tripped automatically, usually when I was outside and wishing my neighbor Jennifer wasn’t in the middle of her daily afternoon nap. I often had a precisely sharpened pencil in my hand, with that awesome tri-lined grade school penmanship paper with that wonderful soft texture and faint aquamarine lines, solid on top and bottom, dotted in-between, on my lap. I could record my musings into a story. The more I wrote, the more intricate the story grew. Pretty soon, an hour had passed, and I excitedly found Mom and read my story to her. I had an idea, I executed it, and I had a product. All born from boredom and sitting on the cement porch staring at our giant elm tree in the front yard.
“While most of us think of boredom as a negative feeling, it turns out that not all experiences of boredom are bad. In fact, if it weren’t for boredom, you wouldn’t be reading this book or any book by me. Let me explain the research first. A recent study showed that simple, boring tasks or mundane activities can allow our minds to wander, daydream, and create. The lack of stimulation that defines “being bored” gives our imagination room to play and grow.” Brene Brown
Can you think back to when your lovely daydreaming periods became buried under the weight of the “shoulds?” I do know that Mom often expressed her “shoulds” when she indulged in a 15-minute lunchtime nap on the couch or a Saturday afternoon pause to listen to the Metropolitan Opera task-free. I no doubt assimilated those as would be normal. This is true for all of us as we grow into our lives as young adults and then adults.
Those times of daydreaming devolve to indulgent and frivolous. What if we reframe them
as gold mines instead.
I’m still staring at the pigeons attempting to murmurate and failing, but even they are improving. Maybe I will, too, as I make conscious effort in these coming days to set aside time in my idle moments for intention-filled day-dreaming. The new grown-up activity.
If you want to join me, hit me up below.
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