Tag: productivity planners

pandemic pause—rethinking productivity

A photo caught my eye yesterday as I was scrolling through Facebook—two gorgeous twelve-week notebook planners, a smaller one with a fine linen cover lying atop another, larger and more elegant, with a black leather cover. The woman who posted in a private group regretted the purchase of the smaller one—she was “hyperventilating with buyer’s remorse,” because of the “frustrating aesthetic” of the linen. As a female business owner in a male-dominated profession, she felt the sleek leather gave her legitimacy, helped her feel powerful when she walked into a meeting.

I was astonished.

During the fall quarter last year, I had used that linen covered flim-flam planner. The structure was useful, goal-setting and -tracking and whatnot, as I was navigating a return to grad school.

But then, pandemic.

From mid-March until June, I worked long hours in the garden. Making a garden is hard work. Maintaining a garden is… work. Rehabilitating a neglected garden—yikes. But I didn’t need a planner for that, only a running list of what I wanted to accomplish each week. I loved that my day was not packed with infinity things. And it was deeply satisfying to be able to see results, to effect change in my environment, and feel the day’s labor in my body.

What I learned during my gardening months:

  1. Control is easily achieved with chemicals, money, and machinery. See the cult of the American lawn.
  2. Chaos and disorder are achievable by disrupting and then neglecting the earth. Weeds will choke out desirable plants and all boundaries will be annihilated. That was my sitch in March.
  3. Controlled chaos, abundance of form and scent and texture, is the most challenging and, for me, the most desired. Getting there.

Controlled chaos, beauty, requires time and labor. Or the money to hire someone to labor for you. And there’s the rub. If you have the money, you likely won’t have the time to labor yourself.

I knew all the gardening freedom would come to an end, that the money would run out. The university continues to publicly pretend that we will reconvene in August, despite the rising number of COVID cases. So, presumably, I am still employed. But because everything was cancelled last spring, I did not earn the overtime that typically sustains me during the summer months.

So. My garden hiatus, my work-detox, is over. Less gardening, more strategizing. I reread information about the SMART planning model. I enrolled in and completed an online editing class. I took a Zoom workshop to learn how to spiff up my LinkedIn profile—which, let me tell you, is absolute shite. And, I fiddled with a daily schedule that would include blocks of time to do All The Things. You know, productivity planning.

Every day we see more articles about rethinking work in the age of plague. This article kept popping up in my social media feed with a clickbait suggestion of a shorter workday in our future. But only a few sentences at the end address that issue, and I continue to wonder about the history of the eight-hour day. How did that become the norm? Eight seems just enough to keep us, especially women, exhausted enough to have to pay for services, meals and lawn care, for instance, rather than cooking and gardening ourselves.

I have not eaten a restaurant meal since March 12. I will never be a foodie or a superior cook, but, surprise! I can feed myself. The lettuce hasn’t bolted yet, and we’ve enjoyed a garden salad every evening for months. I used to hate making salad. I used to hate making dinner. But the pandemic has normalized kitchen work to the point that it’s as natural and easy as brushing my teeth before bed. An unexpected side-effect.

At one point, as I was I brainstorm-typing an abundance of utter nonsense, I remembered a conversation I had with my friend Barbara. I had just discovered the flim-flam planner, and we were having a show-and-tell. Even as I enjoyed the beauty of the font, the scent of the pages, the quality of the paper, still, this nagging question…. Why? Why not just do the things?

This morning I glanced at my beautiful new quarterly notebook, which I’d filled with tasks for the day—including this, getting back to writing. And I had a wild thought, remembering that poor woman with buyer’s remorse. What if the point of productivity planners is to incentivize us to buy things to make us feel better about generating money for our employers?

Surely not.

[Photo by Ross Mulhausen. Six-week old Black Australorp hens, excellent birds, Mildred & Winifred.]

on celebrating perfect adequacy

Last fall I applied for a six-week artist residency at a retreat center away up in the mountains. As soon as I submitted my (fabulous!) application, I plotted out the next twelve weeks. In my mind, it was all sorted. In my Christian flim-flam planner, also sorted. The path seemed clear, all the prep work for the house and the job, all lined up. And the book proposal would be polished and out the door, poof.

I would arrive at the retreat center on February 22nd, and on February 23rd I would hunker down to finish my damn book.

I did not even get an interview.

The email arrived after dinner one night. My son and his girlfriend were in town, and together with my ex, we’d just been to our favorite Thai place. I shared my disappointment, and appropriate noises of sympathy were uttered. And then I was beamed in the head by a cat toy.

“Nicole, I’m playing with your cat. If you don’t want to get hit, don’t get in the way.”

And that felt a smidgen-smackerel like adding insult to injury. Or vice-versa. So for about ten minutes I indulged in self-pity.

And then I moved on.

(Often these days, I hardly even recognize myself. Mortal Peril has had some curious side effects. Post Mortal Peril, we ain’t got no time for foolin’.)

Here’s the thing, though. Aside from getting the house ready to rent, I kept to my schedule, as if I were going to the mountains to write the damn book.

Yesterday I checked the last Big Thing off my list, and the book proposal will, in fact, be polished in the next few weeks. I immediately reported to my mom-like friend that I am astonishing myself with my perfectly adequate competency.

So. Here’s what I’ve learned:

  • Evidently a life-long ditherer can be reformed. (And reform likely doesn’t need to involve almost-dying, but I can’t speak to that, myself.)
  • My pal was right, even an expensive twelve-week planner is way cheaper than a life coach.
  • Tools only work if you use them.
  • Even if I continue to not-even-get-an-interview, taking those concrete steps feels mighty fine.

A nap about now would also feel mighty fine.

enough chit-chat: on goals & planning & GSD

My son’s partner has always been a straight shooter. Case in point, just shy of her eighth birthday, she wrote:

Dear Santa, I have been pretty good. Enough of that chit-chat. I want a game boy that’s see through and in color or Pokémon cards. Or a kitten that’s real. Not a toy! A real animal kitten. Or Mattel skateboard Shannen. I do want the kitten that’s real very bad. By Lindsey

(she totally gave me permission to share this, bless her heart)

For years I’ve been fecklessly undecided and unfocused about what I want. Little Lindsey had more feck at eight than I have ever had. So enough of that chit-chat is my new motto—now that my last kiddo is out of college, and I’m back in fine fettle, decidedly not-dead.

I’ve always been great at big ideas. Realizing them has been the challenge. Funny how nearly croaking lights a fire under you to get it together for your remaining years.

Now, my friend Sally is the master of GSD, getting shit done. So when, a couple months ago, she posted a photo of a lovely planner on Instagram—that got my attention. Sally had researched her options and settled on that particular system, despite the hefty price tag. I was curious.

The first time I looked at the sample pages, I thought, “This is silly.” Yearly and quarterly goals. Pfft. Who does that? 

Turns out, lots of people do. 

I kept going back to those samples, attracted, and the more I looked, the more sense it made. I mentioned the planner to a friend of mine who is also going through some major life transitions. And I confessed, embarrassed, that I was thinking about buying one.

“Well, why not?”

“It’s forty dollars, buddy! Plus tax and shipping!”

“That’s cheaper than a life coach,” he said. “And probably less annoying.” 

ENTER: THE PLANNER

I found a coupon online and pulled the trigger.

Hint. It’s one of these.

After I placed the order, I had access to twelve instructional videos. Twelve! No kidding!  And to my even greater surprise, it was an earnest, attractive young Christian gentleman who walked us through all the steps in goal-setting and prioritization. (I did not realize I was purchasing from a company steeped in a particular flavor of Christianity. Bygones.) 

There is even an additional video with instructions about how to get the book to lie flat. It was all quite darling! And, frankly, useful. Who has not faced a new notebook or planner, all those empty pages, and not known where to begin? Who, indeed, does not have a secret stash of notebooks that are far too beautiful to use?

The planner is essentially a pre-printed 12-week bullet journal on thick ivory paper. With a few helpful (and trademarked!) goal-planning extras. While I waited for the shipment, which seemed an eternity, I began using the system immediately in my messy notebook. Gosh darn it, if setting three top goals for the day did help me achieve the promised “less overwhelm”—an expression that makes me laugh-weep.

Observations from your friendly walking cautionary tale.

  • The eau de prosperity gospel makes me nervous. It’s hinted at, suggested, but not stated overtly, but it’s there—the idea that if I commit to my daily prayer, as scheduled, set my priorities, I will become wealthy. This is utter baloney sandwich.  I don’t buy (no pun intended) the dangerous personal Jesus theology. 
  • The repeated use of the phrase “high achievers like you,” in the Facebook users group and in the support materials, is suspicious to me. Again, the whiff of prosperity gospel, “join our club and you’ll find wealth and happiness.” Maybe I have imposter syndrome. Yes, I had to unlearn ingrained learned helplessness in my adult life, but I also happen to be missing the ambition gene. 
  • It’s a tool, not the grail, the answer, 42. In the Facebook group, several dear subscription purchasers of the planner have lamented that their planners arrive in the mail quarterly and pile up collecting dust. They cannot begin, and they feel guilt and shame, as if they are missing out on the cup of salvation. For a tool to be useful, it must be used. Perhaps this is not the tool for them and they’re just fine without it.
  • The inspirational quotes at the top of each page annoy my friend Sally because many are misattributed. They delight me, those insipid nonsequiteurs. I enjoy writing snarky responses. I’m terrible.
  • The paper quality is excellent and deeply satisfying.

Enough of that chit-chat.

Bottom line: I have a hate-to-love, love-to-hate relationship with my planner. But I’m in the GSD zone, and, indeed, feeling “less overwhelm.”

(Thank you, Sally.)

Finally: It’s only a 12-week dealio! A short-term commitment. In February I can move on to a less expensive alternative.

I might even go a little wild and use one of the notebooks I already own.