Is there a bad time to start a new project?

I have never believed in the elusive perfect time to start something new. If I did, I would still be waiting for it. And with age, which amplifies the sense of finitude of life, it is no longer an option. However, being a little bit about two months (out of 6 years!!!) into my PhD, the need to slow down and take a deep breath inspired some reflections that made me wonder whether there is such a thing as a bad time to start a new project. There is no need for panic, I will not drop out, but as we often share the fun and wonderful things, it is also important to acknowledge what chaos and mess are often lying underneath them.

About a week after I accepted the offer, the University of Essex announced its plan for closing the Southend campus, redundancies and other money-saving exercises with high impact on students and staff. Mind you, this was just a year after UoE was deemed to be financially safe. Since January, when I started, there have already been two strikes, and it sounds like a third one is on the way unless the dispute is resolved soon. I’m naturally on the side of solidarity, but it can hardly be called a good, calm first term to settle into the new routines. Along with the cuts at university, this year seems to be a major year for changes in funding, at least in the areas I am inhabiting, and while some options are paused, some disappeared completely and those that are still going see unprecedented amounts of applications. No surprise there.  An optimist as I am, I may say that this is just the first year of many to come that will see the flow of resources significantly redirected from education and research to investment bubbles and war economy. Not that it started this year, but it's just that the cracks are beginning to show more and more.

On the personal front, I have to admit, I have been successfully mirroring the dire societal situation with a major drop in income that sent me into a place of discomfort where I’m holding the tension as stoically as I can, wondering every day if it is finally the time to knock on the doors of our local jobcentre. I’d say I’m fairly good at navigating uncertainty, but it also requires a very hard look in the mirror once in a while and a great deal of realism to be able to recognise when the sense of “navigating through” turns into delusion. As a result, I’m constantly on the go, looking for new streams of income and opportunities, knowing that burning out wouldn’t do anyone any good, questioning whether there is such a thing as a work-life balance and if so, where is the hyphen really? In the midst of the worries, my kids are living their best lives, doing exams, being creative, making plans for the future, having a thriving social life and that, as jolly as it is, also requires a lot of attention and care from a solo parent—all that with overwhelming reading lists and a capital creative block under my belt.

What is rather counterintuitive to what I just wrote is the feeling that my baseline isn’t anywhere near exhaustion, burnout or depression, but stays pretty much all the time in the realm of “happy”. There were certainly times when life was much less chaotic, the world situation was considerably more stable, and I had to fight for every drop of “happy” on a daily basis. Resilience is a peculiar concept.

So, did I really pick a particularly bad time to shut myself home with books and articles when life is so loud and calls for attention on every single front? Or is it still the best time, as worse is about to come? My thoughts go out to all students, artists, musicians, actors, philosophers, linguists, anthropologists, historians, sociologists, and other researchers who are sticking with their craft in much worse conditions than we are experiencing here right now. Maybe the perfect time isn’t to be found in anticipation but reveals itself first in retrospect.  

Tend to your blisters and go for a walk

A couple of weeks ago, I got a new pair of DMs to replace their predecessors suffering from a considerable case of “wear and tear-ititis”. Those initiated know that such a change doesn’t come painlessly. Once the first generation of blisters caused by the mixture of enthusiasm and amnesia heals, you employ protective measures to prevent the second generation from forming. However, no procedure is flawless, and it is likely to fail at some stage. I am at the moment observing a second-generation development on my right foot, which posed a significant dilemma this morning. To skip the morning walk on the coastal path or patch it up and go.

As you might have guessed, I opted for the latter and limped my way to the marina while ordering a new box of Compeeds on my phone. The coastal path is a special type of ecosystem. You can’t see it until you become a part of it. That lady in a bright blue jacket that I can recognise from a far distance by the character of her walk. The dog with a perfect face for a Disney villain in Lady and the Tramp. The runner who always wears shorts. The family that joins every morning to walk their dogs together. The crows that crack shells by throwing them from high on the beach stones. The depressed heron that always sits in the same spot in the morning, crouching, staring at the horizon. The “good mornings” and “hellos” become an understated acknowledgement of the integrity of the ecosystem.

When anything disturbs the balance, it is immediately felt. Not just noticed, felt. Like the new fence that was put up last week, which made many wonder. The contractors do not know, the council doesn’t know, but the path knows and feels it. It will take a few rainy weeks until the fence weathers, the grass grows around its base, and the eye softens. Then it integrates into the ecosystem. Now irreversibly changed.

While walking, I have been thinking a lot about para-academic spaces and the underground networks of connections that keep us sane in the world where overground sanity imploded with profound intensity. I also thought of the Scandinavian folk high schools model, housing seminars in communist Czechoslovakia, interest groups formed around art practice, books or specific subjects, and places. When we are creating those spaces, aren’t we just building monocultures instead of ecosystems? How would they be even able to survive if they didn’t specialise, market themselves, and put up barriers at the point of entry to ensure safety for their members? Is there a model like the coastal path? No leaders, no barriers. Can we do academia without professors? Jungian studies without Jung? Spiritual practices without gurus? Art practice that grows from the land rather than from the great masters. Philosophy understandable for anyone taking up the challenge to think? Can we include animals, plants, the asphalt of the road, the rainbow and even the ugly new fence? The thoughts come and go; their movement can’t be predicted, and they resist being captured.

I don’t have answers, but I learned that the key to the ecosystems is showing up. Taking care of your own blisters, but getting out there every day to say, “good morning”. I think that one day, even the new DMs will break in.

Thirty days of bad writing

It is no secret, as I have mentioned many times before, that since writing my dissertation, I have developed a first-class writing block. I have never experienced anything of this magnitude before; if anything, writing was always one of those things that came easily, even in times when I wasn’t inspired to make jewellery or paint. Now it is all stuck in the pipes somewhere, and I feel like I’ve tried everything I know to restore the flow, but with very questionable results.

Yesterday, I tried to write a post about women in philosophy (something I have been noticing intensely, an observation that all my contacts and connections in that world are constituted by men), and after spending an unreasonable amount of time on it, I had to conclude that the text was objectively bad. I did not delete it, but I didn’t publish it either. I’m sure you understand the sense of frustration which comes with time wasted on hitting a wall.

I am, obviously, able to produce words if I must (and sometimes I do), but it feels like I’m birthing each sentence with a disproportionate sense of suffering. Something that should be done with lightness and, I believe, should be fun to do, turns into a chore that I keep putting off till the last minute, and when the last minute arrives, my brain melts, my fingers become heavy, and I collapse into minimalist sentences and words that kill ideas rather than feed them and make them stronger.

On self-reflection, I realised that there may be three parts of the problem. One is the lack of inspiration that is not just about not having ideas, but about not seeing how a simple idea could be developed further. The other refers to the craft of writing. As with any craft, when you take a break and come back to it, you are rusty. Everything takes longer, you feel insecure about the smallest things, and you simply lose the perspective that can accommodate the surplus without drowning in it. The third issue is the audience. Knowing that I lack inspiration and my craft is rusty, and someone is going to read it, is the best recipe for paralysis. Once I got over the pain of frustration and identified these three areas of potential problems, I decided to attack them all at once and see what (if anything) comes out of it. Hence, I set up a challenge to write badly and publicly to practice the craft, explore what on earth is happening in the space of inspiration and do it openly. The reason I decided to share this experiment is quite simple. We are our worst critics and if I let everything I wrote sit in an enclosed area in a notebook or a Word document, I would find it more difficult to ever let it go, which would spiral just deeper and reinforce the block.

Whether I will stick with it for 30 days is an open question, and I’m not by any means committed to it (a great way to start a challenge, hey?), I simply liked how it sounded. My hope is to write as much and as often to become comfortable in that space again.

Consider yourselves warned. There is no need to read from the place of solidarity, but if you do, I’m forever grateful for the support. Let’s see if a creativity coach can help herself.