How many times did I say that when I was a kid (don’t answer, Mom). The standard response was to offer me a variety of tasks to keep me busy. You know, cleaning my room, pulling weeds in the garden, doing my homework.
But now I’m an adult and I have my own, endless list of tasks: clean the bathroom, organize the pantry, weed the flower beds, walk the dog, go to the grocery store, write another blog post, work on my manuscript, cook supper, go to work . . . Well, you have your own endless list. Especially this time of year!
Which makes me wonder, what happened to being bored? It seems boredom is a luxury, something I might need to cultivate. Oh, not the boredom of childhood, rife with discontent and the desire for something different. No, I’m talking about the kind of boredom that can be savored, enjoyed, even anticipated.
I’m talking about a Sunday afternoon with nothing on the calendar. No deadlines allowed to press. No tasks permitted to linger. No guilt admitted. Just being. And, at some point, feeling the boredom. And soon after that, wishing for a little busyness. And maybe, just maybe, appreciating all the tasks awaiting my attention come Monday.