Ok, so I won't actually be discussing unicorns and Big Foot here. This post is about the third-mentioned mythical concept, the notion of life balance. At least, life balance as I originally understood it, where life is like a pie divided into multiple pieces, and the task is to keep those pieces as equal-sized as possible. A certain amount of interacting mixed with a comparable "slice" of alone time, a certain amount of productivity along with an equal amount of relaxation/enjoyment/"down time", etc. This idea, while it makes great rational sense ("To everything, turn, turn, turn")) is tricky-if-even-remotely for most everyone I know, and if you're a single parent and/or artist, forget it.
As I mentioned in a previous post, when I went to my creativity coaching weekend recently, Eric Maisel addressed the balance myth head-on, beginning with the statement that an artist's balance, if there is such a thing, "is a little different" than other people's. I thought this was fabulously understated, like saying that if you were going to go on a cruise, boarding the Titanic was "a little more risky". That said, I found his statemen to be incredibly validating. It made me realize that my pie will sometimes have more slices than would make up a circle, and that fitting them into units of time like days, weeks, and months is going to be an exercise in creativity and flexibility (and sometimes, I'm afraid, futility).
Take my recent Wednesday. I had intended to get up very early to work on my novel for at least an hour before the rest of my busy day. Exhaustion trumped creative impulse, though: having just worked two extra-long days on Monday and Tuesday, my body refused to obey my writer plan to get up at 5 a.m. At work, where I spent a busy 10-hour day running groups at a Probation/Parole office, I hoped to sneak in at least a few minutes of being sociable with co-workers--you know, to "balance" productivity with sociability and enjoyment. Too much to do, so it didn't happen. So much to do, in fact, that at the end of the day, I was almost late picking up my daughter to bring her to her dance class. We rushed like first responders racing to a fire. There, I watched half her class and worked on my novel for the other half. I think I managed to write 4 sentences.
Things I meant to do with my Wednesday, but didn't? Exercise. Respond to a heartfelt message from a dear friend. Get outside for even 15 minutes to enjoy the amazing 70-degree weather. Eat a meal without multi-tasking. Read a new book to my daughter.
During days like that, I'd be insane to define "balance" in terms of equal-sized pie slices or a feeling of covering all the bases. Instead, it's the picture I took of my daughter dancing, both to capture the moment and to make her feel like she had my interest and attention even as I spent part of "her" time trying to write fiction. It's the decision to be temporarily satisfied with four new sentences, because, hey, at least they are four new sentences. It's knowing I will get back to my friend within a day or two, explaining how absurdly busy I've been but how glad I am that we're in touch.
Is this "balance"? It feels more like improvisational theater, full of intent, spontaneity, rapid adjustments and re-adjustments, along with occasional one liners and actions which miss their mark completely. But there's a kind of sense to it all, whether or not it can be easily grasped by others.
Maybe there is some amount of selfishness on my part, to want the pie that is my life to continually stretch, trying to accomodate too many pieces. The bottom line is, I don't know any other way to be as a writer and single mom, two aspects of my life that are really more about who I am than what I do. And so I abandon conventional "balanced life" models and, in solidarity with the other artists, single parents, and free spirits in my life, we find our own truth. We make our own way.
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