Milena Moser on productive idleness: In praise of laziness

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The things I loved to do as a child, namely reading and soon writing, required a certain level of calm, even physical calm, a calm that I often interpreted as laziness. But I could live with this assessment. It also gave me a certain level of protection.

Was I lazy or just living in my stories, or both? As long as I was alone, it didn’t matter to me. Stories arise in the void, in that moment between inhalation and exhalation. In the void.

It is still difficult for me to draw a clear line between work and inaction. Know where one ends and the other begins. This also bothered me as a child. I am a second generation writer. At that time, my father was the only man in the area who was at home all day, although he hid behind the soundproof door of his office.

I didn’t know what exactly he was doing. The rest of the fathers went “to work” in the morning, mostly “to the office” – a term that I also could not imagine. But one thing was clear: when they got home, they needed rest. Then, in one fell swoop, the play and noise stopped.

As a child, I was fascinated by this phenomenon: the appearance of fathers from the station, with a jacket over their arm and a briefcase in their hand. The children disappeared and everything became quiet. Some also came for lunch and then often took a nap on the couch. I realized that those who work also need rest.

Today we would talk about successful work-life balance, at least as far as fathers are concerned. Mothers were rarely seen lying on the sofa. Even in our house. For us, this clear boundary between work and rest did not exist. There was also a narrow bed in my father’s sacred study. Did he sleep there all day? Did he dream about stories?

I was barely an adult when I became a mother myself. And suddenly I lost the inclination to do nothing, to dream, to stare at holes in the air. Or rather, I had to put it down. And I almost completely forgot this wonderful art. Recently I was asked how I did it. I did not know it. I looked around and shook my head, having no idea. I dreamed of freshly made beds, I still remember it.

Later, when my children grew up, work filled all the gaps in my family life. Like water that penetrates into the smallest niches and cavities. It took me a long time, too long, to realize that even a job you love can become too difficult for you.

In the end, it was the stories that made me pause, that made me demand my rights. Who insisted on calm, on emptiness. In those moments between inhalation and exhalation. It was these stories that reminded me that I had to lie down to receive them.

And here I am lying on the sofa and breathing slowly, inhaling and exhaling. Smells like fresh coffee and cinnamon rolls. The wind shakes the electrical cables carelessly stretched across the street. From time to time they hit the window. A neighbor plays the piano. Somewhere a cat is purring. It’s a perfect moment of emptiness that slowly fills. A story emerges.

Source: Blick