Making room for what wants to grow
"The soul grows by subtraction, not addition." — Henry David Thoreau
A modern parable: the weight of our layers
Imagine yourself enjoying the simple pleasure of gardening. You love getting your hands dirty, pruning and trimming, replanting shrubs and flowers, and watching things grow. It's something you do simply because it brings you joy.
As the weather cools, you put on a jacket and continue working. It's a little restrictive, but nothing you can't manage.
Then the rain approaches. You put on a raincoat over your jacket. Rather than taking the jacket off, you figure there's no harm in keeping both on.
As the days get colder, you add a winter coat over the raincoat and jacket. Now, with all those layers, moving around the garden becomes increasingly difficult. Your arms feel restricted, bending over is uncomfortable, and even the simplest gardening tasks become a chore.
Eventually, you decide it's easier to stop gardening altogether. After all, you reason, you can always buy flowers at the store.
Over time, something else happens. The layers become part of your everyday life. Even buying flowers seems like too much effort. You lose interest in gardening, then in other things that once brought you pleasure. You become increasingly lethargic. Somehow, you've lost the desire to create.
One grey morning, you decide to go for a walk. The weight of all those coats still hangs on your shoulders. Along the way, you notice a little girl playing in a small patch of land. She's busy making a garden of her own, digging in the earth and planting a few flowers.
She looks up and asks, "Would you like to join me?"
"I can't," you reply. "I'm wearing all these coats. They're too heavy, and I can't move very well."
"But it's spring!" she says.
You look up. She's right. The sky is beginning to clear, and the sun is just starting to break through the clouds. Reluctantly, you take off your winter coat.
The little girl looks at you again. "And it's not raining."
You glance at the sky. She's right again. You hesitate, then take off your raincoat. Already, you feel a little lighter. You look at the little girl, who is patiently waiting for you. She tilts her head as if she wants to say something. You understand. Without another word, you take off your jacket. For the first time in a long while, you feel the warmth of the sun on your skin.
"Now, will you help me?" she asks.
You look at her little garden. A few flowers are growing here and there, and there's a rather makeshift shrub that could use some attention. You roll up your sleeves, get down on your knees and start digging.
Before long, you're laughing together, debating where the next flower should go and admiring what you've planted. Your hands are dirty, your clothes are a little messy, and you couldn't be happier.
Somewhere along the way, you rediscover the simple pleasure of creating something.
The unexpected thread
In the mid-90s, I stopped watching TV. It was interesting how little I missed it. The extra time I had in the evenings went into reading, taking workshops, and creating my own ventures, some of which continue to serve me today.
Around 2006, I began using the internet more. YouTube seemed interesting, and slowly but surely it became my go-to source of entertainment and learning. I probably consume more of it than I'd care to admit.
It's so convenient. Anything I want to learn about is at my fingertips. But there's a trap. Alongside all the useful and interesting content is an endless supply of things that are mindless, distracting, or downright catastrophic. And they're equally good at luring me in.
Before I know it, I've consumed far too much content, with little energy left to do much else. Somehow, all that consuming leaves little room to create.
The power of subtraction
I remind myself how little I needed a TV or any kind of screen. Somewhere along the line, I started adding my own layers of weight.
We all seem to be adding stuff to our lives. We tend to think that getting more out of life requires adding something. Perhaps it actually requires taking a few things away: subtracting.
About a year ago, I started a ritual (I'd rather not call it a rule) that my PC or laptop be shut down by 9 p.m. Not an easy task, especially when you tell yourself there's just one more YouTube video to watch because the title seems so interesting.
I falter at times, but I remind myself of the impending 9 p.m. cutoff. Not as a way of punishing myself, but as an opportunity to explore how that time might be used differently. Writing, reading, designing a workshop, or simply allowing myself some unstructured time.
Interestingly, I don't feel I'm missing out on much by stepping away from social media. In fact, having that space reinforces my desire to create. I can't turn back the clock or pretend social media doesn't have a place in my life. But I can be more mindful of its lure and the ways it can pull me away from my creative impulses.
Subtraction is a powerful way to make room for those impulses to flourish. We can't expect creativity to magically appear in the 20 minutes before we go to bed simply because we tell ourselves, "Finally, I have some time for myself." We need empty space. Quiet space. Space to play.
I'm not necessarily advocating for a minimalist lifestyle. I'm suggesting that we examine what we've accumulated and ask whether it's helping us or getting in our way. Sometimes removing one thing makes room for something much more meaningful.
The aim here isn't to be prescriptive. Choose your own ritual. Chip away at the inessentials. Look at what you might subtract from your life to allow your own garden of creativity to flourish.
What layers have you accumulated that no longer serve you?
What would you make room for if you had a little more room?
Till next time. Travel light.
