I’m bored

I’m bored.  

When I used to say that as a kid, I was told to find something to do. And I did.  I could always bury myself in a book or find a friend to talk to or cook something or play music or go for a walk…. 

I’m bored.  

When my kids say it, I find myself getting irritated.  All these toys?  This pool you’ve got?  These books and pets and this great neighborhood next to the stream and the woods?  Stop complaining.  Go find something to do.  

I’m bored.  

My students say it when they’re tired of being in school; when they don’t want to do their work or when they’ve got a case of spring fever and are itching to be outside.  I try to engage them and encourage them in spite of it.  

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My whole life, I’ve been taught to view boredom as a weakness; a negative, lazy state of being, associated with a lack of creativity and motivation.  Only boring people get bored.  Right?

I’m trying to spend more time getting in touch with my own emotions.  More and more often, I have this nagging unrest.  Unease.  Some of it is the regular repetitiveness of a summer spent not working.  Much of it is COVID related.  And when I really sit with the feeling and try to give it a name, I keep coming back to… boredom. 

And I rail against it. 

I’ve painted and redecorated.  Cleaned.  Sorted.  We’ve done fire pits and puzzles.  Swimming and reading.  Writing.   Cooking.  Hiking.  Socially distanced visits.  Takeout.  Zoom cooking class.  Spa day.  Gardening.  Repeat.  

This particular kind of boredom isn’t a lack of something to do.  I have plenty to DO.  The cooking and cleaning are endless.  We’re blessed to have space and a fire pit and a pool and a few close friends to gather with.  There are always more books and new recipes and stories to tell.  

This particular brand of boredom results from a lack of novelty.  I know myself well enough to understand that I need new ideas, new experiences, and thoughtful conversations in order to feel like I’m learning and growing.  And I always want to feel like I’m learning and growing.  

Through this pandemic, I’ve been trying.  I’ve learned to use my old sewing machine, and I’m getting better at mask-making.  I’m reading a bunch of anti-racism books and exposing myself to new ideas.  I’m listening to podcasts and watching documentaries… 

But all of it feels a bit weak without robust conversation and connection and experiences to look forward to.  

I miss my friends. 

I miss my book club. 

I miss church.

I miss concerts.  

I miss conversations that flow naturally, unimpeded by the limitations of Zoom. 

I miss camping.  

Restaurants. 

Carnivals.

Festivals.  

Movie theaters. 

Arcades. 

Museums. 

And so I order new books from the library and complete endless puzzles and go for long walks.  I sign up for online classes.  I take the kids on outdoor excursions.  I set up zoom happy hours with friends and family. 

I write.  And as I write this, something is dawning on me.  Perhaps it isn’t boredom I’m feeling.  Maybe it’s something else entirely.  Maybe it’s grief.  

Not the soul-wrenching kind.  Not the life-shattering kind.  Simply a vague sense of loss.  Unmet expectations.  Disappointment.  

I look at that list and I understand that my disappointment is of the middle-class, entitled variety.  I know we’ve got it good.  So I douse that feeling in gratitude and sprinkle it with a flurry of activity.  I ignore it and push it aside until it finds another way to bubble up.  

I’m bored.  

I say ‘bored’ because it’s fixable.  Boredom can be cured with activity and movement and thought.  

But the disappointment?  That’s a feeling I’m going to have to learn to live with. 

I’ve recently learned that feelings are for feeling.  All of them, not just the pleasant ones.  Thanks to Glennon Doyle for that nugget.  I’ve also learned from Marc Brackett that identifying and labeling a feeling is the first step toward emotional health. 

So I’m going to feel the disappointment.  I’m going to stop calling it boredom.  

I’m going to double down on the gratitude thing, but not as a disguise for my grief; as a solution, instead.  

I’m going to pay my bills and clean my dresser and paint my daughter’s nails.  I’m going to throw some burgers on the grill and splash my son in the pool and build a fire and roast another freaking marshmallow.  Because the busy-ness will start again.  When it does, I’ll look back on these lazy summer days and wish for this blessed kind of boredom.