PMonkIsTrying #8a (preCovid/Retirement)

OF IDLENESS

OF IDLENESS

Montaigne in his eighth essay reflects on idleness. He certainly should know. He was the third generation of Montaignes who made their money from the vineyards they owned in Bordeaux. That was the way a family became part of the aristocracy: three generations of getting other people to support you, et voila — Nobility. So by that definition you got to be a gentleman by having nothing productive to do. Montaigne lived the life of an aristocrat, which I assume meant calling on other aristocrats, eating well and engaging in badinage, To be fair, he did a stint as Mayor of Bordeaux, but he wasn’t thrilled about it. In fact he found out he’d elected when he traveling through Italy. When he was 38, he decided, ca suffit and he retreated to his castle. But he found that this left him too free to think about things willy nilly. He sought to organize his day and thoughts with writing. Which was still the life of an aristocrat, if you think about it, which I am. Which may or may not count as action.
I punctuate my own inaction with frequent bursts of frenetic activity. Balance eludes me. If you asked me I would tell you that I have two favorite words — serendipity and equilibrium — two words that represent the yin and yang of my existence. My version of equilibrium is not steady state, but rather a wild upswing of having no time, not even to eat much because I am working on projects, playing with kids, doing my job, pressed to complete all of my tasks which at this point in my life are mostly self appointed, averaged with just as extreme a downswing of sitting around, reading a book or playing a ridiculous game such as Temple Run. My lifetime stats on Temple Run: in 1735 games I have completed total of 3,284,186 meters and collected 896,489 coins, which any self respecting adult \would be ashamed to admit, yet here I am not only admitting it, but posting supporting statistics to illustrate just how good I am at wasting my time.

Yet if you ask anyone who knows me they would most likely tell you that I am a whirlwind, always organizing projects and events for which I am locally famous, indeed I have a cult following of people who always turn out for a Pamelapolis Production, none of which make money, although for the most part I don’t spend any money on them either, just time, mine and that of others who are happy to let me devise amusements to while away the hours of our existence. A couple of years ago I organized the YODAS, (Your Own Damn Awards Show) in which 30–40 denizens came to a red carpet fancy dress dinner,(give yourself your own damn award, buy your own damn dinner) to present themselves with awards they believed they deserved. A good time was had by all, but that was all it was, a good time. Was it a good use of time? We, the aristocracy of my selfosphere, didn’t care.

But what counts as a good use of time? Is idleness really the devil’s playground? Are idle hands the devil’s tools? Can the devil, which for the sake of this essay I am defining as a bad use of time, be held off with knitting, for example? Or crocheting. Not accidental that there is not one word that covers both activities, even though they are essentially identical to those who don’t knit or crochet. There is something concrete, solid and undeniable about the transformation of strings of rich color into items of warmth, utility and beauty. Needles and hooks made of gleaming metal or polished teak, delicate for a lacey concoctions, or massive for bulky ramparts against the cold and wind. I think I could happily retreat to a yarn stores skeins of delight surrounding me-deep jewel tone synthetics with sparkles and sequins, rugged wools of tan, white, brown and black. Soft baby yarns, sophisticated multicolored pastiches, workmanlike rayon blends of every hue imaginable. If I have a ball of yarn and a hook, I can get through times when I am forced, by my own accounting, to be inactive.

Most recently, I traveled to visit family and I knew if I had a yarn project I could survive it. There are some very loving family members who could murder me with the best of their intentions and knitting or crocheting while they try is how I defend myself. I look as though I am sitting quietly doing nothing, when in fact I am creating. While my hands are busy, my mind is free to wander wherever I like. I look like I am idle, doing nothing, which is more or less what we do at family gatherings, being together is the only point. And when certain topics come up, that if I were interested in doing something, like causing a raging family argument over one of those topics that families rage over, I can make my fingers fly.
To my family, knitting is an acceptable quirk, something idiosyncratic in the young woman I once was and expected of the old lady I am now. When I was tending young children, I knit to prove I still existed. You can’t read when you are caring for toddlers, you can’t do anything that makes you less diligent for their safety. But you can knit or crochet a simple pattern. You can put it down and pick it up easily. And I never felt bored- I made mittens, hats, socks, bed size quilts, sweaters and oh so many scarves.
I dropped the craft for a while, but about a decade ago picked it up again- it was a fad for a while among young people, it was speculated that Julia Roberts and Catherine Zeta-Jones had been knitting between takes on their movie sets, and this imbued this pastime with glamour. I don’t THINK that’s why I started up again, but maybe, why not? There is a club at Penn State called the Knitivists, they knit for causes, though I’m not sure how or why that works. I don’t need a larger social purpose for my projects, it’s enough that it gets me through patches of time when I am pinned down. This last family visit alone, I completed one neck cozy and two scarves and made substantial progress on a fourth, which I could do while biting my tongue and keeping myself awake. By some definitions, a busy bee.
On my way back from New York, I was forced to be idle. Not by my choice. My bus had mechanical trouble . We spent 5 hours waiting for another bus, stuck at a rest stop two hours from home. If the bus were moving I’d feel busy. But I would be just sitting. Because it was still, I could write. So I wasn’t really idle, was I?
I’ll have to let that thought marinate.
Hey Montaigne, you’re French, you know your way around wine and food. Is marinating idleness? If not what is doing the acting?
Madame, I can hear him reply, May I quote myself? The soul who has no established aim loses itself. So establish yourself an aim, already .