There’s a philosophy that I accredit to my grandmother, though I’ve never heard her utter the idea. Just another piece of wisdom passed down through the ages, but it’s something I’ve now centered my train of thought around.
If you don’t have time for your garden, you’re working too much.
Now I can’t grow a houseplant to save my life let alone an entire garden. However, the idea can be extrapolated into just about any passion. Each day, I plan on focusing on my craft. And every day, after work, I’m sprawled out on my bed, exhausted and spending the rest of my waking hours watching less-than-a-minute videos.
My garden is beyond neglected. It’s empty. Paved over. A parking lot.
Years ago, I traded in my typewriter for a computer. And maybe that was the mistake. There were ideas of disconnecting the computer form the internet, but that just left other devices. I keep thinking about Amy Poehler’s words: “My phone is trying to kill me. It is a battery-charged rectangle of disappointment and possibility. It is a technological pacifier.”
It seems like every day it gets a little worse. It’s come to the point that I don’t know if my depression is feeding my displeasure at work or if my displeasure at work is feeding my depression. Mix in this whole pandemic business, and I’m ready to make a career change.
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