In Defense of “Wasting Time”

Since I quit my day job and began living my dream of being a full time writer and artist, I have had to make peace with how counter this life is to the expect norms of productivity. We live in a world where hard work is demonstrated in those things we can measure and define. Full buckets and barns attest to the work I do on the family farm. As a teacher I measured my progress in lectures written, tests given, and papers graded, before that progress was measured by the time clock. Now it seems as if nothing I do will have such concrete proof of my effort ever again.

Sure there is the occasional painting, the drawing, and the pages that multiply on a good day, but most of days do not seem to be very productive. I read a novel, a history book, or a news post. I listen to music while staring at the clouds. I watch a movie, answer emails, or talk with a friend. From the outside it must seem as if I live of wasted time. Time spent in frivolous and unproductive pursuits. However, so much more is going on beneath the surface. It is all part of a process few understand, a process, in fact, that I am just learning to define.

As an artist, I am always on the prowl for that next piece of inspiration. I need it like a junkie needs their next hit. It is the basis and reason for my work. It is what makes life vibrant and beautiful, and when it is absent, why I am unsettled and restless.

For centuries, the essence and process of inspiration has been debated. Some claim that it is unfaithful lover coming and going at its whim. Some say that it overtakes you like a summer storm. Others find it in quiet meditation. Each a description holds merit, but yet each one fails to address how we prepare ourselves to receive the inspiration that will move us to write great words, create profound images in clay, paint, or marble.

It is true that inspiration cannot be decreed or mandated. It cannot be summoned like a faithful dog, or controlled by the powers of mental or emotional discipline. It strikes when it is ready, when the heart and mind have been properly conditioned to receive it and not before. However, despite its uncontrollable and predictable nature we can prepare ourselves to receive it, equip ourselves with the proper tools to bring it into the light of this realm.

And we can practice those things which bring us into the lightning’s path. Of all things that I hold to be true, one of the beautiful truths I celebrate is inspiration begets inspiration. So I seek out those things which hold the light inspiration within their words and images. I read the works of those who capture their inspired moment with words. I listen to those who froze that fleeting moment in the eternal language of music. I look upon those images that portray the intimacy of that perfect moment in ink and oils. They all speak to me of something greater that I too can know if I allow it to become a part of my reality.

Each idea and concept embedded in these forms takes root within my mind, a fertile ground for extraordinary and curious connections, blossoming into new and original thoughts, the basis for future creativity. My time, seemingly wasted, is Psyche sorting seeds, pulling ripe kernels of the sublime from the husks of the mundane.

A slow and arduous process where I toil, hoping to find that one brilliant insight that will breathe new life into me, it why the artist is weary from a day of what others consider leisurely activity, why watching a movie can leave us exhausted, a book or painting can drain us the point collapse. For us, the reception is never passive. A single good idea once communicated by another bursts forth in our minds as a plentiful harvest of inspired ideas of our own, compelling us to create anew, adding our perspective and experience until resembles nothing of its original state.

Our work, began by what others consider to be casual amusement, becomes consuming. Demanding to be created, given life of its own, and we find ourselves at the mercy of this strange force called inspiration. We sculpt, paint, and write trying to focus the energy we have received, praying that we have the power to give it a form that will be recognized by others and in turn allow them to know the blessing and gift of being inspired. Our ends sacrificed for their means. A cycle as old as time, and one we bow to willingly so that it may continue.

So I will “waste” some more time today, read that novel that has sat too long neglected, watch that movie that has grown dusty while I was doing my “real” work. This is my job now, to discover those seeds of inspiration that will allow me to do what I have been created to do.

The Merciful Headache

The headache is coming back. The one that makes me wish I could close my eyes and shut out the sights and sounds of this world, the one that turns my stomach and leaves me feeling as brittle as the fine porcelain. I have asked God why I must endure these bouts of incapacitation, there is so much more I could do if this blinding pain didn’t hinder my thoughts.

I could easily break into some deep theological discourse on the various Christian ideas on pain, but the truth is none of that really means much to someone who is in pain, physical, emotional, or mental, and I, like everyone else, desire only one thing at these times – relief. I want very simply and very profoundly for the pain to stop.

There is a temptation to rail at God for allowing me to endure this, after all I am in the middle of attempting to do what he has called me to do, but that type of existential angst is beyond me in this moment. For those of you who have never experienced existential angst, allow me share that it requires a greater expenditure of energy than these headaches will permit. So having asked for relief, sought it out and been left disappointed in pharmaceutical remedies, I am left with the task of endurance.

Now, I have studied various ideas of Christian philosophies on the matter of pain and why we experience physical ailments. Some schools of thought say that it is simply our cross to bear and we should endure with meekness and a mild spirit, perhaps which is beyond me, or maybe that is what God is teaching me. I am open to the idea of him teaching through any method he deem appropriate. Some schools of thought would say that I am suffering due to the consequences of sin, and in general I am in agreement. Pain and suffering are due to sin, but Jesus himself refutes the idea of sin being the cause of specific and individual pain in every circumstance. And as I have yet to experience the guiding force of conviction in relationship to this particular pain, I do believe that is it not this. So if it is God needs to speak louder.

Another school of thought would say that I need to examine the symptoms to understand the root cause. In this case, my head aches and the head being the symbol of authority would indicate I am having problems with authority. Well, I always have problem with authority but I am actively working on those issues. So once again I doubt that this is the cause or the cure for the knives that are gouging out my eyes from inside my skull.

Why am I still typing? Misery loves company, I guess. And it is a question that I would love to have answered. Why, when I need to be the most focused and on my game, does my head try to implode?

I think it is a reminder. A reminder that I should never rely too much on my personal ability to achieve. In everything I must be on guard against arrogance and my skills. Blame the pain, and forgive the blatantness of the next statement, I am good at what I do. I can make almost anything work if I try hard enough, and I know how to go after what I want. It is a God given tenacity that I have and one I use to my advantage. The problem lies in the balance.

God has given me a gift, but it does not mean that I may use it apart from him. It does not mean that I can rely on what he has given in place of relying on him. It is not an easy balance to achieve, so occasionally, he knocks me down a peg or two and leaves me lying slobbering in the floor while he advances in spite of me. He removes the power I would be attempted to abuse from my hands so that I can, in full knowledge, lay powerless at his feet. Through the pain he is “leading me not into temptation and delivering me from evil” before I have the ability to recognize there was even a hint of danger. He knows my weakness, and he knows I am weakest when I am operating in my strength. It is then that I am most likely to turn loose of his hand reach for those things I can do myself.

He is never a big fan of my self reliance. He knows it get me into trouble, and like a good Daddy he would rather prevent it than bail me out. So I am going to accept today’s mandate, find a quiet spot and lay my head down, pray that he is taking care of all things I am going to have to let go today. He knows I am out on a limb with deadlines and obligations, it didn’t escape his notice. So I will have to trust that he knows what he is doing, a fact easier said than believed when a thousand little jack hammers are making mush of your brain.