The Upside of Downtime

I have a hard time slowing down. But today, my body is giving me no other choice. I'm home with a terrible cold that leaves me with just enough energy to curl up on the couch with my pillow, blanket, mug of yogi tea and, of course, my ever faithful German shepherd, Dixie.

A part of me is thankful for the rest. It's giving me the opportunity to take a fresh look at why my body called a time out in the first place. And I can't shake the feeling that is has something to do with the fact that there's simply too much on my plate these days. There's a fine line one has to walk between being "busy" (spinning in circles) and being productive (moving forward). It's easy to cross the line, especially when the extraneous to-dos and obligations take on the cunning guise of "opportunity." And yes, I'm learning, that even things we enjoy can become unnecessary distractions that pull us further away from our intended paths.

I recently stumbled upon the Creative Thursday podcasts by Marisa Haedike. In this particular podcast, she talked about childhood holding clues to our authentic self, or the me I'm supposed to be, as I like to say. As a child, what did you like to do for creative play? What made the minutes fly? What made you feel pure joy?

For me, it was writing. When I received my first journal for Christmas in 1988, I wrote in it daily. Faithfully. When I wasn't writing in my journal, I cut and pasted pictures onto paper to create my own magazines. I wrote my own newspapers and left them on the neighbors' doorsteps. I devoured creative writing assignments in English class. In the weeks leading up to Thanksgiving, I spent every after school moment working on that year's family play (yes, my aunts, uncles, sisters and cousins kindly obliged and became my cast and crew). Back then, writing was play. Writing was me.

When did that change? When was the "play" of writing replaced with what would be perceived as "practical?" When did that undying belief in myself—in my voice, my opinions, my ideas—become misinterpreted as conceit? When did the need to pick up the pen or bang the keys succumb to fear of what others would think of my thoughts? It's almost as if I turned my back on Young Sara. Just left her standing there with her pen and notebook and a head full of deliciously creative ideas. The thought makes me so sad.

So I've decided to use this precious downtime I've been given (ahh, there's the silver lining to my stuffy head and runny nose) to reconnect with Young Sara.  I'm surrounding myself with old photographs. I'm even watching reruns of favorite childhood cartoons and 80s sitcoms. I'm paging through the books I read and re-read as a child. I'm reading old diary entries and listening to my small voice captured on a cassette tape. And as I do these things, I'm allowing myself to feel the energy and emotions each creates, the clues they leave that will lead me back to Authentic Me.

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