On a forum I occasionally visit when I need a dose of the mentally ill to cheer me up, I read words that spoke of dangerously entrenched procrastination: “I finally know how to learn Spanish.” What I inferred from those few words, probably correctly considering their source, is that he has a desire to learn Spanish, but rather than learn the language, he has spent his time learning about ways to learn the language. By doing so, he deludes himself into the belief that he is learning something when he knows as little of the language as he did when he began.
I have been the same way. How long did I wait to begin practice on the violin? Sure, I feared that I would learn techniques incorrectly, and I probably would have, but such errors can be corrected; meanwhile, the time I wasted while in wait of a better method of practice has not produced a better violinist, but only a tardier one. Among my many demons, perfectionism is the most conniving of them all. It pretends to look out for my interest, but all it does is paralyze and procrastinate; I become a sloth with nothing significant to attribute to my name. It’s ironic that my fear of wasting time, whether in haphazard violin practice or in writing mediocre poetry, has resulted in the majority of wasted time I have suffered.
I’m much more active now than I was last year, because I no longer wait for agreeable weather or knowledge of optimal methods; I just dive into the activity, whether it be playing the violin, yoga, cooking, or writing. I no longer delude myself with the belief that the time would be better spent in research of better techniques, because I know I would not use the time to do research; I would simply waste it as I have all these years. It’s very likely that I’m developing some bad habits as I practice the violin, but I also know I’m developing some good ones, because the songs I attempt sound more like songs with each day.
As a Mac programmer once wrote, “Real artists ship.” Likewise, a decent poem written is far greater than an excellent poem imagined. It’s still a chore to force my flesh to do what I want, but I slowly gain the upper hand. As I practice the good habit of practice everyday, it becomes less of a chore. Eventually, it will feel unnatural not to do so each day. It’s like with flossing: There was a time when I anguished over the time and effort it took to floss my teeth each day; nowadays, I floss twice a day. That’s actually a bit of wisdom I read from a violin instructor: Practice until it becomes as habitual and emotionless as brushing your teeth.
I’ve been very productive this week. I dread the day I revert into the sloth, but I’d like to be optimistic enough to believe that such days are gone. However, that nagging voice of the spoiled manchild is as voluminous as ever. Fortunately, I now know the right answers to its cries. It demands that I rest my body and mind; however, I will be just as tired no matter how many hours I waste. It persuades me not to live such a tedious life where I repeat the same actions everyday; however, I have always lived a life of repetitions–and I believe everybody does–but the repetitions I practice now make me better. It threatens that failure is inevitable; perhaps, but if I cease, I will surely die a failure, so my only option is to try. With that in mind, maybe I am not ensnared in an infinite loop, but rather in an upward spiral.
