Tag: joy

Silly Things We Do That Keep Us Sane

What do you do that keeps you sane?

I’m guessing that a lot of us have things we do that would appear impractical and odd to anyone who observed us doing them (if we actually let anyone observe us doing them). They’d count as silliness were it not for one factor: the good they do us. 

A “thing” I did this last winter was something I learned from Bodhisattva the cat. Over the years, my family has laughed at her for this practice, but she’s never seemed to care.

Bo in the Sun (Photo by Callie Smith)

Late in the day, “Bo” (as we call her) will gravitate to west-facing windows in search of sunrays. She’ll search for a while during the greyest stretches of an Indiana winter. She’ll persevere, though, and when she finds even a hint of sun, she’ll stretch herself out in it. On carpets, in chairs, across bedquilts – she’ll position herself anywhere that lets her stretch that little body out and expose as much black fur as possible to the sun. Soon, her fur feels hot to the touch. 

On cold days that feels wonderful. This last winter I was craving that kind of warmth for myself. I have a condition which worsened this winter and led me to give up outdoors exercise in the cold weather. No more walks during gentle snowfalls, no more bike rides on brisk days, no more getting out to take advantage of winter sunshine – I gave it all up. 

If you don’t love that kind of thing, then that won’t sound like much of a loss. I loved that kind of thing, though. I counted those activities as some of my winter “mental health moments” that helped me change gears, de-stress, let go of whatever I needed to let go of on any given day. Those outings let me get moving and give my mind, body, and spirit some time to relax together, to work together, and to reconnect. I hated that, of all things, these outdoors activities were the very things that my body called me to give up this last winter. 

Have you ever had to give up doing something that you loved to do? 

It meant frustration for me. It meant winter stir-craziness to the nth degree. It meant agitation and discouragement. And, when I started paying a little more attention to Bo the cat, it eventually meant an opportunity for some creativity. At least, that’s how I began to reframe it.

Late in the days when we had anything that even remotely resembled sunshine, I’d join Bo by a west-facing window. With my body so much larger than hers, I didn’t always find a way to stretch out my entire self in a ray of sun. Instead, I focused on letting the last of the day’s sun fall across my face. 

Some days I’d gaze out the window and watch light illuminating the lines of dull-colored winter brush, suddenly not quite so dull. Some days I’d lay on the floor, close my eyes, and bask in the vibrant orange-ish light of sun through my eye lids. Some days I’d take my portable, apartment-sized elliptical machine and push it right up to the window where I could exercise and feel, as much as possible, surrounded by the sun. 

Photo by Ivay Val on Unsplash

What can I say? I felt the brightness in my eyes and the warmth in my body. In my mind, I pictured smiles. For the occasional and briefest of moments, it would sometimes even feel as if the day, or the universe, or some beloved person was smiling upon me. From time to time, it even made me ponder the smile of God and what that would look like.

For those briefest moments, I could almost feel my body, mind, and spirit resting together in a place of wholeness, which is what I think I mean when I refer to “sanity.” I even started to think of these unorthodox winter moments as a spiritual practice of sorts. They changed my gears and let my insides settle. They helped me relax and listen to whatever I was needing to listen to at the time. Mental health moments and spiritual practices – both – can look quite different for different people, and this sunshine through winter windows was doing something very healthy and sanity-nurturing inside of me.

What about you? What do you do that keeps you sane? Like the feel of winter sun on my face, I’m wishing you your own sense of warmth, your own reminders of smiles, and your own pauses of wholeness and sanity these days.

The Beauty of Rest: Contemplative Essays* (Clay Patin Press 2023) is available for free on Kindle today (3/21/23 Pacific Time) only.

On the Valuable Use of Time

I’ve been feeling the need to explain myself lately. Aware that I’ve put inordinate amounts of time into a hobby that I do (admittedly) love, I’ve felt the urge to defend myself (even if only to myself) about what I’ve been doing. 

What have I been doing? I’ve been writing a novel. In the dark before winter dawns this past year, I was brainstorming in a little brown notebook, wondering what I’d get to vicariously experience through these characters and who, in fact, they might become. By spring, I was spending what morning time I could holed up at a computer desk by my back window, geeking out over how to cobble together a flow of scenes that felt satisfying. Now that summer’s almost past, those hours have added up to a lot of enjoyment, a manuscript draft finished, and – when I’m honest with myself – a lingering unease about how much time I’ve given to a “mere” hobby.

Do you ever do that? Do you pour time into a hobby or other interest and feel a tiny bit guilty at the thought that you could have done many other more sensible, productive, profitable, resume-worthy, socially conscious, or otherwise obviously valuable things with your time? 

I do. Perhaps I’ve moved in one too many workaholic circles. Perhaps I’m facing realities that most of us face, knowing how these days our families must come up with way more money to even begin to afford the same basic things as before. For many reasons – I’m sure – I’ve felt a growing need to explain my use of valuable time for a “mere” hobby.

I’ve tried to articulate the value of what I’ve been doing by talking about it with friends and colleagues. I’ve brought it up boldly over lunch. I’ve admitted it off-handedly in a parking lot. I’ve named it quietly inside a car, staring ahead out the windshield and listening for what tone of voice would respond to break the silence. At each opportunity, I’ve taken the risk of sharing with another human being the fact that I’ve finished writing a novel manuscript.

I’ve explained the value of it in various ways. I’ve floated the idea of fiction allowing us to dip into different, more experiential ways of knowing than intellectual reflections and news reporting often allow. I’ve emphasized the importance of exploring underrepresented perspectives, noting how a main character in my novel agonizes over what to do with her experience of sexual harassment in the church. I’ve spoken of my writing again and again with an eye towards what meaningfulness it could hold for readers. In none of these conversations, I assure you, have I said anything that I did not believe to be entirely true. 

The problem is that summer has nearly passed, and none of my conversations have fully represented, either to others or to myself, why I’ve been doing what I’ve been doing. I sense there’s so much more to why I’ve spent all the time I could immersed in this hobby.

What is the value of joy? I still don’t have the elevator speech or blog post to get at that. Not really.

Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash

I have to hand it to my conversation partners: when learning that I’ve poured enough time into a novel-writing hobby that I’ve actually completed a manuscript, not a single one of them has asked me why I’ve done it. Bless them for responding as if they assume value in how I spent that time. Perhaps they noticed something in my face or voice. It strikes me all the more, though, what unease I feel at spending time doing something whose value I haven’t fully defined for myself. Yes, I relish the process of doing it, but how well does that justify the time spent?

Where have you landed with the value of your own hobbies or non-professional interests? How have they been speaking to you lately?

As I sit with these questions, I’m sitting with my unease of not precisely knowing answers. Perhaps I’m taking this opportunity to practice lacking clarity and finding ways to do that with grace. Perhaps I’m toying with the idea that explanations, especially for things like enjoyment or gladness, are not always required. Perhaps I’m noticing how many people and pursuits can call out to us, as it were, for reasons that we don’t totally understand. I suspect human beings are always encountering the voice of God in new ways, and certainly, learning new ways of hearing (or seeing, or knowing, or evaluating) just downright takes time and practice.

For now, daylight hours in the midwestern United States are lessening again with the waning of summer. I’m once again taking moments in the dark before dawn to sip coffee and see what happens in the pages of that little brown notebook. I’m working on a second manuscript. I’m also keeping an eye on my text messages, knowing that a friend who communicates by text is reading my first novel manuscript even now. I’m really curious what he’ll say.

I feel a little scared, but I feel excited, too. I’m practicing, both with how to write fiction and with how to balance a life. Both fumbling and feedback provide chances to learn. In fact, I feel hopeful to be catching glimpses of myself in these moments of not needing to know or understand the why/when/what/how of everything. That means I’m open, and I trust that time spent opening oneself up to the not-yet-knowns of life will indeed hold a special kind of value. 

I’m also trusting that one way or another I’ll be sharing with you some part of what I’ve been working on. Time will tell, of course, but I look forward to knowing what it tells.