I am resistant to it the way I am resistant to math. Or folding geometric metal shapes in my head on IQ tests. I want to be structured but also free and footloose and spontaneous. And because of this stubbornness I often feel fretful when a day passes and I've done nothing much of anything.
But when I do do things, like cleaning and vacuuming and cooking and shopping, I feel as though I haven't done anything at all.
Perhaps all this is because I haven't been writing. Or I don't get paid. Or I'm not around people.
When I was working full-time as a teacher, I was always lost and peevish and sometimes crazed between semesters, especially over the summer. (I often opted to teach at least one summer class.)
When I quit, I knew it would be hard and I'm not sure what I spent my time doing, I think a good bit of writing and counseling and drama queening this and that and over there. And on those summer breaks I did manage to get through. Probably by what I think of as wasting time which is pretty much any day wherein I do no useful work. And useful work appears, for me, to be writing or reading serious books. Or NYT articles. Or Atlantic. Or Daniel Dennette. And gods forbid, The New Yorker.
And the Daily Office.
And going to the Y.
I must find volunteer work soon. I will go back to Consulate and sing with the folks. I will volunteer for something else. Or teach a workshop somewhere.
And that meditating thing.