Monday, April 24, 2017

The Relentless Burden of Relaxation (sarcasm intended)

I spent last week laying on a beach in Mexico thanks to the extreme generosity of a good friend. It's ok to be jealous, it was pretty awesome. The funny thing was that even though we were in a little piece of paradise, Cameron and I could not figure out how to relax for the life of us.

You see, our vacations are generally active vacations. We pick places where we can hike every morning, or go to museums and do some sightseeing. This vacation, though, was different. In this location of Mexico there was absolutely nothing to do except lay on the beach, or lay by the pool, or read on the patio while overlooking the ocean. Yea, rough life.

So the first day Cameron and I did all of the obligatory laying around and reading and by the end of the day we were totally freaking out. "We might have to leave early," Cameron said. " I don't think I can do this for 4 more days."

"Yea, who knew that being lazy would be so difficult!!"

It was such a weird predicament, to have the opportunity to be leisurely, a luxury really, and have absolutely no idea what to do with it. 

We laid on the bed, overlooking the ocean, and deeply sighed. What a ridiculous problem to have.

The problem was an American one, but a problem nonetheless. We had accustomed ourselves to lives of such busyness that idleness was more foreign than the local Mexican grocery store. We had convinced ourselves that relaxation was bad, something to feel guilty about, and a waste of our precious time.

But as the week went on we started to give in. We read novels for hours, took afternoon naps, and walked down the beach looking for shells every afternoon. I swear that Cameron started to look younger as he left his stress behind and actually began to rest. We were rarely frustrated or angry, and we laughed. We laughed so much more than in our everyday existence.

What had changed? Cameron and I still talked with each other in the same ways, and the same problems and to-do lists still existed back at home, but we were calm. We were more easy-going. We were more apt to let the other person choose where we should eat dinner and we served each other better. All because we allowed ourselves some rest.

Funny enough, I came back to work today feeling so calm, even though the visions of the beach are only in my mind. The spirit of rest accompanied me to the office, and actually produced a more effective and productive employee. Rest seemed to enhance my normal life, even though our culture frowns upon it. And it made me think that maybe Millennials sometimes have the right idea. The media and the "real" adults chastise the Millennial generation for not holding down jobs, for wanting a more leisurely, retirement-like existence, in their twenties. But I think maybe this generation is grasping onto something that has been missing. Yes, we need to work hard. Yes, we need to do well at our jobs, seek a sustainable career, and be responsible.

But maybe, just maybe, we also need to relearn how to take times of rest. Maybe every now and then we need to let go of guilt, log out of our email, and spend some time reading a novel on a beach somewhere.

Add a piƱa colada in a real pineapple and I am thinking I might have found the recipe for success.

Wednesday, April 12, 2017

The Flowing Words that will Not Be Stopped

I miss the words that used to flow like ocean waves from my fingertips. 
Like the tides they would present themselves. 
They were reliable, they were my lifeline. 
And then so much changed and I think I could barely figure out myself let alone the words to express it. 
I lost myself somewhere. 
I lost the words that were so precious to me and I curled up into the shell that I had created and decided that the world was bleak and I was better off cutting myself loose. 
To produce words would mean to process and I did not want to process. Processing can mean pain, and my little shell was comfortable and dark, but manageable. 
Processing was not manageable. 
So the words packed themselves into a box and decided not to bother me. Since I was rather snappy it was probably better for them anyways. 
But despite my resistance the words kept pressing against the tips of my fingers, begging to be written. Maybe my identity was a little bit lost, maybe my purpose uncertain and my ego hurt, but there were still words that wanted to be pushed into the sea. 
So I sat and I decided to let my soul move my fingers, no matter the result. 
To write, for me, is to live. 
The tides are moving and from this point forward they will not be stopped.