The Disease of Productivity

I've been struggling lately with feelings of guilt. Nothing too bad, but no matter how hard I try to shut it up, there's a little voice nagging me: I should be working more, working harder. Objectively, there is no reason for this. I'm meeting my obligations. I'm not letting anyone down, but whenever I choose to read a novel in the middle of the day or take a long walk in the autumn sunshine, I'm cautioned that I'm wasting time. I'm pretty good at silencing the voice, but it reasserts itself whenever what I'm doing isn't somehow moving my life forward. 

What a bummer. 

If only I'd not wasted all that time, I might have that big house by now, that vacation home, my daughter's inheritance would be secure, I'd have reached all my retirement goals. If I'd only worked more I could now just relax without a care in the world. I could finally afford to be irresponsible. But I'm not where I should be and it's my own fault. If only I was more motivated or driven or fearful, I'd be somewhere by now. 

I can go down that rabbit hole, but then I remember that I'm not alone. Indeed, I don't think I know anyone who is not at least a little bit afflicted with this disease of guilt over, say, prioritizing a session of backgammon over the precious "to do" list. 

Yes, of course there is always something I could be doing. That is the nature of life. There are always dishes that need washing or phone calls to return, but if I heeded the voice, I'd spend every waking hour being "productive," which I don't think is the same thing as living. We live in a culture in which we are made to feel guilty for resting and recreating, like it's dessert or something. We've learned to judge ourselves for our use of time and if it's not valued according to measurable criteria like money or a zeroed out email inbox, we deserve what happens to us.

And we're being infected with this disease at younger and younger ages. There was a time, not too long ago, that stuff didn't "get real" until at least high school. It was only then that your grades began to matter, but now we have preschoolers receiving academic tutoring. We have experts warning us that our five-year-olds are falling behind. It shouldn't surprise us that the incidence of mental health issues like anxiety and depression is at an all time high amongst our nation's children, and I'm certain it's spiked over the last several months as we've strived to make them "productive" again by sticking them in front of computer screens.

There is something wrong with all of us. We find ourselves feeling guilty (or at least we're supposed to feel guilty) for actually doing those things that we would rather be doing. And we feel good (or at least we're supposed to feel good) about doing those things we would rather not be doing. It seems backwards to me and it seems backwards to every young child I've ever met. 

In many ways, reading, writing, and arithmetic are side issues. It's this lesson of productivity that is the most "important" thing we try to teach children in our schools. And man, it's a very hard lesson to learn because it flies in the face of both instinct and reason. It takes us a decade or longer to teach it to them, and even then, many simply can't learn it. But it's so important that we drug them, we risk their mental health, and we punish them, all in the name of productivity. 

I have no illusion that society will change any time soon and I've been hearing that nagging voice for so long that I've given up on making it go away, but we don't have to keep doing this to our children. We can let them play. We can give them their childhood. The lessons of productivity will come soon enough, but maybe, if they've been allowed to actually live, they'll see it for what it is. Maybe they won't feel guilty. Maybe, if they learn to feel good about doing what they want to do, they'll know that productivity is a means to an end, not an end in itself. And maybe, if enough children have an actual childhood, we'll wind up with a world of adults who know that it's not just okay, but an unqualified good to read a novel in the middle of the afternoon.

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