The Art of Doing Nothing

Image by Aaron Burden

I’m writing this journal entry from Mexico, where my little family has relocated for a week while a bunch of unexpected, yet highly necessary work is taking place at our house. It’s rained every day here, making everything more humid and jungle-like than usual, but also so gorgeous and lush.

As the rain comes down again today, I’m particularly struck by the seasonality of things, and not just in nature. We just wrapped another school year here, along with the end of another concert season. I have a new book releasing into the world in a few days, and another going to my editor in a few weeks.

Image by Tòng A Pảo

My mind tells me I should do this or that right now – post on social media, tweak this, share that, get started on the next thing, be more productive, DO more…

It’s all just noise.

Here’s what I’ve learned from years of observing Nature and living a creative life: seasons are always shifting, one into another. There will always be demands on our time, whether externally or self-imposed, but working to depletion under the guise of dedication is a recipe for disaster.

In order to create without burning out, we actually need times of unproductivity. Some call it the void or a fallow period. Others simply call it rest. Just like in the natural world, where there is a rhythm to cycles of growth and seeming dormancy, we have seasons and cycles that need honored too.

We are part of nature after all.

Despite how much society may push us to produce, produce, produce, we actually need times of unproductivity and receiving. Times where we rest our brains and bodies and refill our proverbial wells. Times where we can celebrate how far we’ve come, and most importantly, integrate the learnings from the previous cycles and acknowledge and embrace the new person we have become, our latest evolution. Times to celebrate the steps along the path that have all added up to who and where we are in this very moment.

This is one of those times for me, an in-between. The liminal space that calls for rest, receptivity, and integration. For quiet moments of doing nothing while feeling everything. Honestly, I think one of the hardest things I’ve ever practiced doing is nothing. Not the doing nothing of laziness or avoidance, but of allowing. Of just letting things be.

Including myself.

Image by Knut Robinson

Part of the creation cycle is resting and reminding ourselves of who we have become to create what we created.

I’d thought resting in this season would look more like exploring ruins and swimming in the sea with my family, but two weeks ago, I dislocated a kneecap, so those things are off the table for me right now. Instead, I’m rocking a fancy brace and rolling around the place in a rented scooter, taking in the scenery and marveling at the bravery of the local coatis and the way the flame-like flowers on the Royal Poinciana trees catch the light after the rainstorms, and how the golden flowers on the Guayacán trees seem to glimmer in the breezes.

I met a blind woman who told me to make sure that I look at everything twice.

A cancer survivor who told me not to take a single day for granted and to fill my life with things that bring joy – to myself and to others (she shared how so much of her life pre-cancer had been spent on things that were utterly unfulfilling, other people’s ideas of who she should be rather than who she actually is).

I met a chocolatier who can’t stop smiling she loves her life so much (and her chocolates are incredible!).

I wouldn’t have met any of these women if I was busy doing.

There is something beautiful in the low-key, the slower-paced. The pause between projects and/or seasons. Something vital.

Here’s to allowing for rest, and integration. To honoring the cycles of creation and who we’ve become throughout each process to create the things we created. And here’s to knowing that doing nothing is actually doing something, even if we can’t see it. Especially then.