“You’ve got too much time on your hands.” My good friend said, when I told her I was learning to play the ukulele. Though I tried to hide it, my heart sank at her words. Because this was just one of the many comments that I’ve been on the receiving end of since I quit my job to try something new. “Of course you bake sourdough.” A different friend told me just weeks before. “You don’t have a job.” “Still skiving?” My brother-in-law asked, only weeks before that.
Triggered
As much as I try not to let the opinions of others get to me, they really do. I am a chronic people pleaser. I want to be liked. To be thought of as good, by … well, everyone really. Whether I like them or not, is beside the point. How I am perceived by the outside world matters to me more than I would like.
These comments probably mean very little to those who deliver them. They are my closest people after all. They no doubt give very little thought to how I actually spend my days. More concerned, I’m sure, with living their own busy lives. That I am triggered by these comments then, says more about me than it does about them.
Although I don’t ‘work’ my days are full. But because our society measures success by the amount of money a person earns, the things that I do seemingly count for nothing. No matter that I keep my family fed, my house clean, and my fridge full. That my daughter gets to and from school on time, and with all the right stuff. That my Grandma has a steady supply of her favourite foods, that her bills are paid, and her house is warm. Never mind that the presents are bought and the cards are written. That the dog is walked and the cat is fussed.
There is an expectation that this free labour will be taken care of, that the mental load will be carried (by mostly women) without complaint, whether we go out to work or not.
Money, money, money
That I sit in front of a computer and face the uncertainty of a blank page day after day. That I excavate my soul and bare it to the world, means nothing, it seems, unless there’s some monetary transaction that deems it worthwhile. No matter that I finally feel like I’ve found my purpose. Or that my family have never been happier. Who cares about any of that when I could have a few more zeros in my bank account.
A measure of this monetary pressure is certainly external, but much it comes from within. The truth is, I don’t think my time is well spent unless I’m being remunerated. The paradox here is that, the more I think about earning money as a writer, the more creatively stunted I become.
In her book Beyond Anxiety: Curiosity, Creativity and Finding Your Life’s Purpose, Martha Beck writes:
“Anxiety shuts down creativity so completely that even the slight stress of being told we’ll get paid for solving a puzzle makes us less able to think creatively.”
Separating my creativity from the need to earn money has been difficult. That was, after all, the plan. It’s difficult to not feel like a failure that it is taking so long. That, let’s be honest, it might not happen at all.
Yes, I’m still skiving
To be seen as productive is a badge of honour for many. A badge that I proudly wore myself for far too long. Often overwhelmed with work I would turn down any offer of assistance, choosing to play the martyr instead. I knew the rules of the game. To accept help was to appear weak. Incompetent.
I live life at a much slower pace now, but it’s difficult to let go of that need to be seen as busy. I’ll often catch myself recounting my to-do list. Look how busy I am. See, I’m not lazy.
The thing is, I love my life. Yes, I’d like to earn some money for myself, but there’s certainly no pressure from my husband to do so at the moment. He sees the value of my contribution to our family as equal to his own. He has gifted me the freedom to find a new way. Sometimes, like today, I forget that. I try to go back. Because sometimes that known quantity, as uncomfortable as it was, feels safer than taking a chance. A leap into the unknown. How lucky am I that I have the choice.
And since you ask, my uke playing is coming along nicely. Seeing as I woke to him practicing before 7am on Saturday, I think my clever-handed husband feels threatened by my progress. And, as he’s got a proper job and I’m still skiving, I think he has every reason to be.
