The Construct of Time
I sometimes work with a woman named Anne Emerson who is somewhat of an adjunct therapist. I call her when I feel extra-stuck, and she works with me on my limiting, subconscious beliefs. As we chat, often quite generally, she’s half-listening to what I’m saying and tuning instead into what goes unsaid. She then shoots back statements that on the surface might have little to do with our conversation but are eerily accurate. Like these from a recent call:
“Being a hard worker who makes major life sacrifices means I am more valuable and what comes from the struggle is more valuable than when it’s all in flow and easy.” I was ON for that.
“Having a good worth ethic means fully opening to work that I love and only doing it when it fills me on all levels.” And I was OFF for that.
Ouch.
At the end of every conversation, she muscle tests/re-programs the statements. (Or that’s the theory.) While I enjoy the reorientation, I really love the conversation: Anne is abundantly wise and she also makes me laugh. And I really love to laugh.
As many of you know, I fell off a horse, knocked myself unconscious, and broke my C2 in two places this summer. Despite how scary that sentence sounds, miraculously, I was largely unaffected. The one significant symptom from the accident actually surfaced in my gut. I was recently diagnosed with lymphocytic colitis, a relatively benign IBD that’s thought to be an autoimmune disease. Regardless of its provenance, I have been wiped—very, very tired—likely a reaction to my inflamed colon. And this has been stressing me out. How am I going to produce “enough work” when I’m so exhausted?
Rob has been reminding me that I recently delivered my very first book into production, an endeavor that took an awful lot of energy. And he added, I worked on a book project for Shondaland (yes, I got to watch Bridgerton about two dozen times, for work—fans of the show will love Inside Bridgerton), host a podcast, do board work, consult, read many, many books, and parent. And yet, I remind him, I used to do all of that, plus hold down a full-time job, and co-host a podcast that published twice as many episodes. My recent exhaustion has left me feeling like I just can’t do what I used to. That my creative capacity is narrowing and that I’ve used myself up. I could tally my productivity at the end of every work day and it was…a lot. Now, I have days where I accomplish…nothing.
And that’s where Anne comes in. I was looking through notes from a call we did when I was first out on my own, processing how and where to spend my seemingly abundant time. “Do not forget,” she warned, “time does not work in the same way for you. You are not allowed to accept an hourly rate.” She went on to explain that my energy expenditure is short and vast. I make fast work of things—or that’s how it seems. But underneath my ability to quickly dash out a memo or plan, I’m spending a huge amount of creative energy. It’s simply not tempered in a way that can be accurately measured by time. That brief? It didn’t take me two hours. It took me two hours and two months…or two hours and twenty years. I am definitely not alone on this—I think many can relate—but it means that when we’re bound by eight-hour days and clock-watching, we quickly burn ourselves out.
Now that I feel truly on my knees energy-wise (IBD or no), I recognize that it’s time to finally heed Anne’s warning: I can no longer flog myself according to the parameters of an eight-hour day. I need her to re-program my mind about productivity, so I can recognize when enough is actually more than enough.
I had to laugh this afternoon when I opened a package from An Organised Life in Australia. I had ordered a fresh (and embossed) 2023 planner along with a stash of their vegan “leather” notebooks. I transitioned to a physical planner this year and have loved writing things down (and crossing them out), rather than relying entirely on Google. While I was looking to replicate my 2022 experience, I don’t read fine-print very well, particularly when it comes to measurements: I accidentally ordered a planner that is 2x the size. So, you know, I can theoretically fit twice as much in every day. I thought about ordering the smaller version, but decided this is the perfect god-wink and an invitation to leave empty space…to do nothing…every single day. Here’s to relief in our days, re-imagining the equation of output/time, and refusing to measure ourselves by the world’s accounting of productivity.