I’ve always been an overachiever. I’m not saying that in a bragging kind of way – overachieving is hardly a worthwhile goal. But it’s not a type of pathology either, as some would have us think.
I’ve always been an overachiever. I’m not saying that in a bragging kind of way – overachieving is hardly a worthwhile goal. But it’s not a type of pathology either, as some would have us think.
Contentment is more about what’s within. It’s about finding joy in the simple things, like feeling the sun on your face, or being followed by a rainbow. Getting lost in a pile of autumn leaves or laughing so hard hurts. It’s about being satisfied with what you have, rather than always striving for more. Contentment is like a cosy jumper – the colourful one your gran knitted for Christmas. It may not be the most fashionable thing in the world, but it’s comfortable, and it makes you feel good.
Pandemics have a habit of placing humankind on the back foot. To everyone around me, I may have looked like I was (finally?) slowing down, but my brain was on high alert. Anxiety does that. Thoughts take you where they will – rationality, optional. My mind, nerves and heart revved constantly, gearing up for destinations unknown. Meanwhile, I left a few crumbs in case I got lost … which, for a while, seemed to be often.
But it recently occurred to me that I wasn’t lost at all. I was simply changing.
Get fit, brush up on French, update the kids’ scrapbooks, publish my play, experiment with other forms of writing, be grateful.
That was the list I wrote after the shock of the first lockdown settled, somewhere around April 2020. It was part ‘When life gives you lemons’ and part ‘If I stay busy I won’t have time to think about seismic changes in the world.’