Thank you, Devon Price

Thank you, Devon Price

I curl like an egg
inside a shell of blankets,
await the impulse
to hatch.

I used to chide myself
for even a whiff
of laziness,
used to break myself
against the sides of bowls,
making things I didn’t
care to eat. 

But then I got sick—
too sick to whip myself
up to a solid state,

too cracked to follow
recipes that weren’t
incubated
in my own heart. 

So I guess that makes me
double lazy. 

Except I heard a guy say
that laziness
doesn’t
exist,
and though this would mean
that the hard work of breaking myself
was less noble than it once seemed—
I believe him. 

Because here I am,
doing nothing,
and the feathered little something
of this poem
just fell from my heart
into my open palm. 

Photo by Ramiro Martinez on Unsplash

The Prompt

My poem (written mostly while curled up in bed) was inspired by this wonderful episode of the We Can Do Hard Things podcast, in which they interview the social psychologist and ridiculously likeable human, Devon Price. Devon is the author of several books, including “Laziness Does Not Exist,” which I will most certainly be reading.

If you have the time and inclination to listen to the podcast episode, then feel free to treat the whole thing as your poetry prompt du jour. If not, here are some questions to consider. What messages did you absorb in childhood about work? About busyness? About laziness? About relaxation? What messages did you absorb about yourself relative to these?

How do you view these notions now? If your views have changed, what inspired that shift?

In what contexts do you find work enjoyable or satisfying? In what contexts do you find it draining? What does relaxation look like for you? How many minutes can you spend lying on a couch doing absolutely nothing before a voice in your head starts telling you to get up and get busy? (Try this with a timer if you’d like!) How many minutes before that voice wins out and you get up and get going again?

None of this is a test, of course. It’s just an exploration. There’s nothing like curiosity to open up the channels from which creativity flows. So happy exploring, friends! I look forward to reading your poems.

And Another Thing

Well, two things, actually:

First, for those of you who are participating, the poetry telephone chain has begun! When it’s your turn, I’ll send you the poem that you’re responding to via Substack DM. If you don’t use the Substack app, please reply to this email and let me know so that I can email you the poem instead.

And second, I’ve probably mentioned at some point that I’m a certified Forest Therapy Guide. (This is essentially just another name for forest bathing, if you’re familiar with that.) A couple weeks ago, I led a Poetry in the Park workshop here in Kentucky, combining forest bathing with dedicated time for writing poems (or whatever else bubbled up and wanted to be written), and it was so, so lovely. Anyone want to do some version of this together on Zoom?

Here’s what I’m envisioning . . . on Saturday, May 11 from 4:00-6:00 EDT, I’ll host a Writing in Nature experience that you are all invited to join. For the first 1.5 hours, we’ll use audio only. I’ll be out in my backyard or in a local green space, and I encourage you to try to be in direct contact with nature, too. Being in a yard or park or grove of trees is ideal, but if you’re dealing with physical limitations or have lousy weather that day, then sitting next to a window or with a houseplant can also work.

My job on the call will be to guide you into deeper sensory awareness of your surroundings and to offer invitations for gentle and playful ways to engage with the natural world. I might, for example, invite you to explore the textures of the trees in your vicinity or invite you to make a small collection of natural objects (leaves, cones, rocks, etc) and arrange them in front of you like a mini work of art. These invitations should feel spacious, both in the sense that I’ll give you plenty of time to engage with them (usually about 15 minutes) and in the sense that they are only invitations, never assignments, and so you are always encouraged to follow your own intuitions and desires as you explore your environment. (As long as you don’t, say, rub poison ivy on your face. Please don’t do that.)

Following each 15-ish minute invitation, we’ll take 15-20 minutes to write toward a poem. I like the word toward here because while, yes, some poems emerge really quickly, others take their time. So sitting with a pencil in hand and just feeling what you’re feeling and noticing what you’re noticing counts as movement toward a poem. Writing down a list of images or sensations is writing toward a poem. Scribbling a super shitty first draft that will make you laugh with embarrassment when you read it a week later . . . such good, necessary work toward a poem!

We’ll probably be able to repeat this process twice (invitation, followed by writing), then wrap up with a grounding meditation, and then for anyone who is interested, I’ll offer the option of turning your camera on for a sharing circle. This can be a space to read something you’ve written or share about your experience engaging with the natural world. I also just love the idea of getting to see a few of your faces!

A few last details . . . there is no cost for this, but if you’d like to make a donation, that is certainly welcome and appreciated. And finally, if you’d like to participate please reply to this email or send me a DM to let me know, and I will send the Zoom link your way.

Whew! That was long. Hopefully a few of you are as excited as I am, though, about the prospect of writing together in nature!

I look forward to reading your laziness-inspired poems in the comments thread!