George, use your head...
In the default world, my days follow a familiar routine. What happens when our world of habits is interrupted?
“George, use your head. Think of what you can do when you feel bored.”
Her voice cut across the campsite to a seven-year-old.
George, the smallest human in the group, perched on top of a chilly bin. The grown-ups went to the sea with their fishing rods. They told adult jokes between themselves and smoked cigarettes.
The boy looked up at the stars. As did I.
In the default world, my days move like clockwork: ginger-lemon tea, morning walk, swim, one hour of writing, coffee, work, yoga, read, run, dinner, rooibos tea, sleep.
I wondered what would surface when my habits and routines got interrupted.
For ten days over the Christmas holidays, my partner and I experimented with doing nothing. No scheduling. No optimising. Just empty days ahead. The radical plan was simply to do less and make space for reflections.
Here’s the record from my camping log:
24 December
The kitchen cupboard is a space changer.
Inside: a shoebox with eighteen spices, staples like eggs, peanut butter, pumpkin seeds, dark chocolate, kimchi, rice noodles, fresh fruit and vegetables, and chilli oil.
Plates. Bowls. The V60 Coffee. Overnight oats. Leftover oats. All have a place here.
25 December
26 December
Shelter to cook some oats and make a cup of coffee at the train station.
27 December
A woman yells out at the neighbouring campsite:
“George, use your head. Think of what you can do when you feel bored.”
28 December
Underwhelming morning surf at the beginner surf beach.
Overwhelming sunset surf at the advanced surf beach.
29 December
Orange alert. Strong winds incoming.
I panicked when I realised there was no way we could hold on to the tent for another seven hours. Broken tent pole. Our belongings started to fly. The kitchen cupboard almost hit a sunbather.
She survived. We survived. Our sourdough survived too.
Sweet dinner at the park. Walnut sourdough with blue cheese and gherkins.
30 December
31 December
Leaves from a fern. Musty smell. I stop.
I see how the young leaves support the grey leaves as they wither away—some browning and others grey like ash. The young crawl up through the canopy till they reach the sun.
I hadn't observed my natural world this deeply in months.
2 January
Ripples as I enter the calm lake. Glassy water vibrating with each breath.
The lake was aware of my presence.
3 January
Looking at all the white dots in the night sky, I say: “Hey stars, this is my earth.”
Oops, that one is a Starlink. I count roughly three new Starlinks per minute.
I wonder: Is young George still looking up too?
Your invitation to experiment
Step outside the default world of habits for ten days.
You don’t need to sleep in a tent, cook in a train station, or have a big revelation. You just need ten minutes of interruption each evening to your routine.
Put your phone in another room, keep a notebook nearby, and let boredom fill the space. Write what arises in you. Allow yourself to be surprised.