It’s gettin’ weird
“Silence is the communing of conscious soul with itself.”
Alright, I did it! Four weeks of near endless isolation. Four weeks *mostly* without my cell phone - zero social media, a total of one phone call, and a handful of “just this once” texts in the name of efficiency.
This month has been productive in more ways than I could have imagined. Not having my phone at the ready was a bit of a shock to the system, though since it was my choice and planned, it really wasn’t too hard. The shifts in routine made simply by leaving my phone powered off freed up so much of my brain’s energy by not wondering what I was missing out on, or by being tempted to fill up gaps in activity or silence with things, stuff, and noise. This quiet do-nothingness allowed me to reach a new level of connection with myself.
Not to get too weird (who am I kidding, this is all *very* weird), but, when was the last time you spent even a day, let alone four weeks, virtually alone, without intentionally communicating with others? Now add deliberately digging into your past with the intention of dissecting, then digesting, and regurgitating it into a written linear story? That’s an easy answer for me: never. Not even a little bit. And although I do live my life in a fair amount of delicious solitude, and I probably reflect on past and present more than the average bear, I still found this to be an intense, sometimes quite painful, experience. I had impulses to quit, or at the very least to fall back on old methods of coping with pain by texting someone about something completely unrelated, or distracting myself with the company of nearby friends or acquaintances. Yet, I stuck with it. Not for entirely noble reasons but as more of a social experiment - what happens to my brain when left unadulterated by outside distractions, opinions, or the safety nets of “normal life”? Turns out, a lot happens. A LOT.
During this experiment, I should add, I woke up every morning between 5:30-6 and went to sleep between 9:30-10. I cooked and ate all meals at home alone, drank the same amount of coffee and water each day, and walked my dog at the same times and for the same distances, (though sometimes his 16 year old body demanded some flexibility here). My goal for every day, which I stuck with religiously the first two weeks, was to be at my computer writing from 9am until 12pm, and again from 2pm to 5pm. The times outside of writing were for cooking/eating, walking, household chores, reading, and thinking. Yes, I scheduled time for thinking.
By the end of week one, I felt exhilarated. I wrote more than my word count goal each day. I felt my body vibrating with motivation. By the end of week two, I felt mostly the same, but with a cloud of impatience looming over. Impatience for what, I wasn’t sure. I chalked it up to my inner little drill sergeants chomping at the bit to amp up speed, increase word count goals, and ride the wave of productivity to some mysterious finish line. What I soon discovered the impatience to be was a deep need to digest, and rest. I’d taken a jackhammer to my past looking for nuggets that I could turn into chapters, all to realize I’d hit some main gas lines, a land mine or two, and was inhaling asbestos. This is what I was alluding to in last week’s newsletter.
So tomorrow I go back to whatever my version of normal was. Though to be honest, I’m hesitant. What a gift I’ve given myself to take a rototiller to my foundation and then take the time and space to clean up the debris, and mindfully tend to the land on which I’m building the rest of my life. My time blocks of “thinking” grew larger day by day, and I gravitated toward reading books on re-parenting the inner child. I know this probably sounds a bit cheesy if you’re unfamiliar, but it’s a thing. It’s a beautiful thing. In one of these books I read they used an analogy of trying to drive a car while both flooring the gas pedal and stomping on the brakes. Sure, you might make it to your destination, but holy hell, is it an inefficient way to get around.
The best analogy I’ve come up with to describe this inefficient way of getting around is to imagine myself walking on unsteady ground, filled with potholes, broken glass, some patches here and there of perfectly manicured lawn, blocks of unfinished concrete with exposed rebar, and the occasional surprise unlidded manhole. Now imagine a lifetime of this, knowing full well the terrain is challenging at best, but blaming your own legs for the difficulty. Run on a treadmill, do some squats, buy high-end running shoes…hey, maybe even try waking up at 5:30-6, going to sleep between 9:30-10, schedule your meals and walks - does any of it matter if the ground you’re trying to navigate is dangerously unsteady?
My goal for next week and onward, is to find a balance with all this. Take some time to level out the roads I was born to travel. Enjoy the challenge of consciously strengthening my legs. Be grateful for the high-end running shoes when I’m able to wear them. Be mindful of my footing, slow down to notice when my knees are wobbly or the travel is exhausting my body, and be open to what presents itself as I trek along. And in case my own analogy isn’t enough, I’ll try to notice when I might be pushing the gas and brake pedals at the same time.
Until next Sunday…
Stephanie
P.S. - enjoy the pic below of my dad admiring his dog while lying underneath his pool table. And yes, in case you’re wondering, I’ve also admired my dog while lying beneath my pool table.
Ralphie the puppy and my dad, circa…I actually don’t know! I’d guess late 70’s?
