Heavy Weather?

          February has been cold, dry, often sunny but, above all, calm. It’s felt like a prolonged period of stasis that’s left me with the uneasy sensation that something is about to happen. Spring, perhaps? Well, yes, but that’s already stirring. Underground and in the limbs of trees the juices are flowing and soon we’ll be seeing primary colours dotting the landscape again. So, what is it I’m expecting?

          On Wednesday I did something which, for me, is unusual: I read a novel in the afternoon. And why shouldn’t I? I am in a position to choose what to do and when to do it – a privilege of which I am both aware and appreciative – especially given the setting of the novel*, medieval England, where very few people had the luxury of choice in anything at all and most were illiterate to boot. So, why am I not in the habit of spending afternoons on the sofa with a book? The answer might be in that word “habit”.

          It wasn’t easy for me to pick up that book and sit on that sofa. First, I had to make sure there was nothing else that needed to be done: I took my bike to get the brakes fixed, calling at the shop for some groceries en route; when I got home, I checked my emails and put some laundry on; then I cleaned the cutlery drawer; then I checked my emails again and, finding nothing of importance, reorganised some files in My Documents; I phoned a couple of pals but without success – these days you have to pre-book call times; then I made a pot of tea and, finding at last nothing else pressing to delay the event, sat down, reluctantly, with the book. Of course, most of what I had ‘needed’ to do was merely ‘displacement activity’, busyness that is contrived to postpone doing that which is daunting in some way or other. And, sure, on the face of it, there’s nothing daunting about reading novels in the afternoon, except that it involves a break with a lifetime’s conditioning. Ever since I was taught to read, the focus has been on textbooks, novels being allocated to leisure time, aka those brief moments left after work and duty have taken their toll of mental energy.

          That afternoon I finished a book that would otherwise have taken a couple of weeks of bedtime reading. Perhaps there’s a lesson there in how to diminish that guilt-inducing pile on the nightstand. Well, I might try to tweak my routine to incorporate the post meridian indulgence of novel-reading but, deep down, I fear it would be the first step to the kind of moral ruination that would eventually see me slumped in front of daytime telly. In any case, all my previous attempts at introducing routines for self-improvement have fallen foul of my tendency to find reasons not to adhere to them. The slightest excuse will suffice, such as fine weather beckoning me outside for a bimble on my bike, with my intention of catching up afterwards being more a hope than a promise.

           Judged by this behavioural pattern, it might be fair to conclude that I am easily diverted from purposeful activity and that I am inclined to be opportunistic when it comes to obtaining satisfaction. Dig deeper, however, and you will find that, by its very consistency, this pattern denotes a long-term strategy for success. Whilst my life might look like that of an addict who looks no further than the next fix, I maintain it is more akin to that of the fisherman who casts a wide net rather than a single, patient line.

           Seen from this perspective, I think the settled weather is unsettling to me because it’s about time it moved on.

* The Spire by William Golding. Published 1964.