Deliberate Fun

Deliberate Fun

Does that sound like an oxymoron? Kind of like enforced holiday?

Let me ask another question. Are you an inspired and spontaneous creative? Or are you a plodder? Or, maybe like me, a balanced combination of both – until you lose that ever so finely tuned balance. Some unexpected event drains you dry, saps your adrenaline, spins you off the wagon and back into workaholism. You keep putting one foot in front of the other, you consistently work late to get things done, but you are no longer finding joy in it

I have a boss who encourages, “Do whatever you need to do to take care of yourself.” He is far from laissez faire when he says this. What he is doing is giving each of us on the administrative team responsibility for our own health; our mental, emotional and physical wellbeing.

Sometimes working late IS self-care. I may need to complete a project so it doesn’t keep me awake at night. Perhaps I need to stay and make extra preparation ahead so that I don’t go into a special event rattled at the onset.

Other times, I have to insist of myself that I go home on time; that I recreate, that I pursue a change of pace. It was one of those weekends.

My regular five workdays included a 12-hour delivery day calling on far-flung stores. The previous week encompassed six days on and only Sunday off. I was beginning to feel the weariness. The joy and energy were wearing thin. So, like it or not; projects waiting or not, it was high time for a change of pace.

When I insist on deliberate fun, I am often reminded of a scene in “The Grapes of Wrath” and the uncle who took his drunk deliberately – like a medicine – without any enjoyment – just because it had to be done.

The thing is, deliberate doesn’t feel like fun at first. I didn’t feel like packing the car for an overnight trip. I didn’t feel like making a two-hour drive. I was fearful of getting out of signal range. What if someone called? What if I got an important email? What if someone needed me? What if the world came to an end and I wasn’t there to, to, to, to what?

I packed the car. I drove. I found a campsite. I walked in the forest. I cooked on my pocket stove. I hiked to the top of a mountain.

And then, wonder of wonders, deliberate fun turned into relaxation, peace, a new mindset, a fresh perspective.

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Mountains, Music and Motorcycles

More often than not, the novels I write contain three spices added to the plot: mountains, a motorcycle and music. I muse on that now, in early August.

I am heartily tired of motorcycles this morning. More than enough of them passed me unsafely on the highway yesterday. Harleys all, with on-coming traffic, encroaching on the beginnings of no-passing zones, sharing my lane because they are skinny and I have moved over, catching up with their buddies oblivious to numerous approaching semis and king cabs – all vehicles traveling 10 mph over the speed limit. Men, have you forgotten how fragile your bones really are?

As for music, I will never quit on my music. I am married to my music. How do I know? – I am much too busy to spend more than an hour each evening with my Music. After all, I gave at the office. Oh, I do still take Music out for special occasions. And I never, never would quit on my music.

But the mountains, ah, the mountains. Sigh. I could have chosen a route straight up Highway 191 and never left the desert. It was hot and smoky in Page and it will be hot and smoky in Grand Junction. With little change in the scenery but in the names of the stratigraphic layers of sandstone, I could have made my journey in about 6 and a half hours. But no, I had to alter my route, break my travel at 8,000 feet. In the San Juan Forest. In the mountains. In the conifers. In a cabin. By a bubbling creek.

About ten miles north of Cortez the mountains reached out and stole my heart – again. I was sick with love. My heart yearned for the hundreds of acres and beautiful homes I passed-many with for sale signs. I rued the fact that I don’t make enough to purchase – not even a little postage stamp – in such a beautiful place.

And then I arrived at my destination and my heart was stilled. A cabin. A gurgling river. Englemanns and Spruce and Ponderosa and Pine. Firewood chopped and waiting. A fire ring. But do I remember how to relax? We shall soon find out. A trail awaits tomorrow.

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