Productive Striving

Strive:  To try to achieve a result: to make strenuous effort; to try earnestly and persistently.

And from a slightly different perspective  . . . 
Strive:  To struggle in opposition; to be in contention or dispute; to contend.

Sounds like war, doesn't it?

Productive:  Capable of producing something, especially in abundance; yielding good or useful results; constructive.

Ah, "good," that's the troublesome word.  Too much nuance there, too little certainty.

Long, rambling talk with SuperK last night about being productive, although we hid the reality of the discussion under layers of justification.  We are both strivers in our own way - we look at the thing produced differently but the basic intent is the same: who is doing the most in the best possible way.  Who is filling dead time with stuff.

This idea of a productive use of time is so distinctly American.  Here we waste time.  We kill time.  We don't linger over something with anyone.  We don't know how to idle.  We're on to the next thing, checking our cell phones as we sprint off.

If you want to watch Sports Center for an hour . . . what the hell?  Watch Sports Center for an hour.  The world isn't going to grind to a halt.  I watched the highlights - again - from a college football game played in 2015 yesterday.

I once read the frustration a writer experienced while trying to describe what she was doing to her Type A hyper-competitive banker husband, trying to help him understand that she needed time to let her mind figure things out: "Just because you see me sitting quietly doesn't mean that I'm not doing anything."  I'm such a linear person - make a list, get to work, cross shit out, move on, relentlessly.  I can't tell you how many times I've gotten to the end of a day and realized I had no idea how the day passed - I was just careening from one successfully accomplished task to the next.  I find myself getting frustrated when something stops this progress, even if it's something pleasant.

I feel like saying to the neighbor's granddaughter the next time she runs over to see me: "Uh, I'm fucking meditating?  Could you leave me alone?  I have to accomplish this task!" instead of popping out the ear buds and enjoying her very enjoyable company for a few minutes.

I got somewhat defensive during my talk with SuperK which probably means she was successfully probing a sore spot.  It also may true that she's holding me up to a standard that - while appropriate for her - may not be a great fit for me.  It's like telling someone that they're doing it wrong if they don't like a particular album that really rocks your world.  Master of Reality comes to mind.

Productivity is in the mind of the beholder.

A scene from childhood . . . Running outside and flopping on the ground under a big elm tree in our front yard.  It's summer time, I have a few months of not going to school ahead of me, I don't have anything to do, it's really about as great as it gets for a kid, although I'm in a contest to see who in my class reads the most books over the break, a contest that I used to trounce my main rival, Sherry somebody.  I remember lying there, a breeze moving the branches around, filtered sunlight dappling my face, listening to the familiar noises of my neighborhood.

I'm not sure it's possible to be happier than I was right then.  Maybe I should spend the afternoon lying in my cactus patch listening to the palm fronds rattle . . .