A Time to Unlearn
This post is part of The Quiet Lane series.
“This one slapped me in the face. Instead of doing the work that makes you productive, it’s easier to become the meta-version of yourself. If your goal is to write a book and all you do is write about how to write a book, you’ve become meta-you.”
I read an article a few days ago about creator burnout. Total serendipity. It wasn't a wake-up call because I already know full-well how close I'm walking to that edge—I mused on this last summer. Out of eight tell-tale signs listed I checked...eight. Perfect score folks. Everything from fatigue to detachment to self-doubt.
Oh great.
It's a weird place to be when abilities you've always counted on, the fabric of who you are, suddenly appear to fizzle out. Not completely, just a little, but enough. And it's really easy, when this happens, to just put on the disguise and become meta-you, as Denning appropriately defines it in that opening quote. You don't even realize you're wearing a costume, at first. You're still going through the same motions, repeating the same words, like a mantra. They seem more hollow, sure, but it's not the end of the world. Just a passing slump, right? You convince yourself that nothing's changed. You keep going.
Until you've become a puppeteer, stringing your soul along.
...
It was Spring Break here last week and the kids got a true, honest to goodness pause: not a vacation, or an escapade, not a week-long extravaganza of ceaseless activities...just time, free and wide open. Anaïs spent the week in Maricourt, so late Friday we packed our stuff (and our dog) for an overnight visit-and-pickup combo. All five of us, which doesn't happen very often anymore.
I chose the X-Pro2. I'd left it without a battery for too long and had to reconfigure all its settings, back from factory defaults. And maybe that made a difference, maybe it brought me to a different place, because the shooting experience felt more tangible. Like I was emerging, remembering forgotten movements. You know what? I think it wasn't meta-me holding the camera. It may have been me-me.
I'm not sure how or why.
There's a lot you don't see in the images: my morning walk with Watson on a ridiculously slippery road (black ice is always fun, especially with a dog that takes you for a sled and deer trails all around); Friday's chicken pot-pie dinner; playing outside with the girls, knee-deep in tons of fresh, heavy, snow; making angels, throwing a ball around, Watson leaping and plunging head first into the ground. Our drenched winter clothes, dripping from hangers in the basement. You don't see this because in those moments I decided to just be, without camera, without motives. It seems to happen more and more.
And maybe that's the key: less.
Setting time aside to unlearn.
...
I'm writing this on the Sunday before Flow Week—my self-imposed hiatus to assess and plan the next couple of months. In the coming days I'll be strutting the notebook and printing shoebox images. I'm thinking of restarting workshops too, but it won't be what I did before—so that's a brainstorm in waiting. Maybe I'll grab the X-Pro2 again.
It's March. The sun's showing up.
I'll see you in a few.
