The quiet moments where I’m trying to find myself

Do you do something for fun? I used to do a lot of things for fun. Womanhood, adulting, motherhood, and the pace of our current world has made that harder and harder. Not to mention the constant chatter about doing things to be “productive.”

I have a true love, hate relationship with that word. I love to see progress and things get done, but it almost feels like how positivity used to be good and then clearly became toxic. Toxic productivity. Yeah, if that’s not a label it should be.

Back to the point though, I used to do all sorts of things just for fun, but I’ve lost touch with me. For so many, many reasons. What do I even like? Where do I start? Much less how did I get here so I don’t do it again. That feels too big to sift through though.

But ugh, the decisions. I make so many decisions it hurts. A girlfriend told me I needed to get away and I didn’t disagree. She went to ask me questions and I felt the tension in my neck go up. I think she heard the catch in my voice and she said, “do you just want me to plan something.” Yes, please make decisions for me. There are so many little decisions all day that fall to me that even the fun ones feel exhausting.

I digressed, again. Maybe that’s the theme of today! But really, what did I do? And even if I remember do I want to do those same things? I’ve pondered the reality that even things I once enjoyed – reading, crochet, sewing, crafts, hiking, cycling, camping… I could go on. They all feel like work. Like I’m so burnt out that even the choice to think about something fun can feel like hard, overwhelming work.

I ask myself, why? I don’t know that I truly know, but it feels as though I need boredom. Haha! Bear with me. I need to be still in that way where your mind can wonder. Where you can day dream and not feel guilt if the daydream doesn’t happen. Where maybe the project only happens in your head. Or maybe you just lay in the hammock and look at the clouds. Like not even search for shapes just look at them.

I feel this soul crushing feeling that I do not enough, yet I do so much the weight is suffocating. Maybe I’ve lost my internal compass, or would it be a barometer? I’ve lost the thing that tells me when it’s enough. Like how you know you’ve had enough water. Or you really need to get out of the tub. Maybe mine is broke? Maybe society broke it?

Regardless I am able to reflect on my days, weeks, years and see that I do so very much. And when I do it actively, with a friend or my therapist, I want to almost cry for the amount I do. And yet, I see myself constantly thinking I’m not doing enough. Adding to the calendar. Spinning for an hour on whether I should do something extra. Something more.

I think there’s more to say there too. Like where did that feeling come from. The need for more. I feel myself pushing against more all the time. But that’s another topic for another day.

All this to get to my point. I finally found a little happy place. It’s not perfect, I’m not really making much with a plan. It’s definitely not productive. Irritatingly it’s using a device most of the time, but sometimes I do it in person. It’s simple, I’m just daydreaming and searching.

Maybe I have stumbled onto some kind of adult adventure. What is this adventure? Old books. But not just any old books. I’ve searched high and low for vintage crochet. Filet. Irish. Tunisian. Lace making. Sprang. That last one is sooooo fascinating, I had to research the term! Who knew that was a thing!?!

I search for books already scanned in by others online mostly. I’ve found that there were books as early as 1840 in print. I like the ones from about 1880-1930 the best. The illustrations and old photos. What was in fashion, the way they wrote the instructions. It also means I can occasionally find some bit of yarn and try a motif. Much easier to go off photos or diagrams. And while they might take a few minutes to work up, its not a 24-30 hour project.

I also day dream about how the people then might have felt when the little pamphlets to show up at their door. I mean, I can find millions of options for crochet patterns today. The inspiration is honestly endless. But had I lived circa 1840, I would have had to be content with what was in a very limited book or pamphlet. And hope I had enough skill to decipher it!

I also get so emotional when I see one scanned in online that is tattered. Like the edges have stains and the cover is barely readable for how much it was held. I feel this sense of excitement for the person who owned it, sadness too. I can’t really name it. But it’s this fleeting moment where I see something so used, loved that my mind fills with all the possibilities for, and of, that person.

I found some while antique shopping in person. They were all from the 1950s to the 1980s. I couldn’t decide if I actually wanted them. If so, what would I do with them all? What’s the purpose? And then I felt nauseous at all the decisions. So I put them back. I didn’t even take a photo.

Maybe if I found some really old ones, pre-1931, and I could legally share the book or pamphlet myself online, I would buy one or two? Because maybe there is another person out there who identifies as burnt out and is needing contained adventure, and they’re on searching too. Seeking the thrill of the find at 5am while they’re sipping warm tea and not quite ready to tackle their day. Not quite ready for all the questions, logistics, demands.

They just want to be themselves, with no agenda, no plan, and certainly no productivity.