What is it? Is it simply the time to do something or is it the doing of something important or worthwhile? I'm not so silly as to think it has something to do with owning a boat, going on cruises or surfing. (Aside: why do most culturally-established "leisure activities" have something to do with water? E.g., the picture above was the first hit on a Google image search for "leisure". What's up with that? . . . but I digress . . .)
To descend from the intangible philosophical question into the reality of practical affairs: I'm really in a quandry as to what activities I should be employing in the minute bits of "free time" I possess. I feel as if it's important that I reinstitute some kind of intellecually worthwhile activity, but, which one?
Should I read more Chesterton? I mean, I list him third in the short list of life-shaping obsessions I possess, and all in all I've only ever managed to give serious time and thought to one of his books, a handfull of his essays and a smattering of his poems. At that rate I think I've given more serious thought to the works of Descartes (per force of it being assigned as homework, mind you. Modern philosophy is not leisure reading.), and that's just
wrong.
However, Chesterton wrote little "enjoyment-oriented" fiction (most of it is that transcendental sort of fiction and/or poetry meant to let you float through intangible truths) and I'm not sure I find his preferred literary modes, fiction or non, very recreational. His works of theological and philosophical intent are difficult for me to take seriously and study, as his profound distractibility jumps from one thing to another, in a way that would be delightful if you didn't take it all too seriously and/or literally. However, I've been rigourously trained into an Aristotelian love of brevity that hungers and thirsts for clear, concise, syllogistic form. Due to this, Chesterton's somewhat erratic treatment of important ideas annoys me a great deal these days. I can no longer bring myself to devour Chesterton's intellectual works - I can only nibble.
Then, there are any number of intellecual treatises I could be reading, many of which are plenty systematic and quite worthwhile. My husband occasionally tries to tempt me to some of them, pointing at the piles of volumes he's required to peruse for classes. I know he misses the theoretically engaging aspect of our early relationship - fortunately for us we are also well-matched on nearly every aspect of the practical realm, so losing depth in the intellectual connection post-TAC has caused less pain than it has for other married grads I know. He still misses that, though - as do I. Last weekend there was a Humanae Vitae conference here at the University, and I made a point of attending the closing lecture (the only one I could manage with last weekend's work schedule). It was undoubtedly the best lecture of the event, given by Dr. Michael Waldstein, who is fantastically gifted, especially in the realm of answering questions. It sparked an evening full of discussion between my husband and I which was thouroughly delightful. I can remember noting how much I must be starving the deeper parts of my brain these days, such was the urgency with which I devoured every bit of the exchange. Yeeeaaaaah. So, uh, maybe I should try reading more deep stuff before my brain dies of malnourishment.
But, then again . . .
There lies this bothersome question regarding these pesky little things called my talents. I've been talking since I was 10 months old, and to this day I continue to delight in communication. Correction: as my husband pointed out, my delight is not so much in communication as in talking, as my powers of listening are decidedly limited in their scope. (Did I ever tell you how annoyingly perceptive my husband is?) Thus follows the great enjoyment I derive from talking to inanimate things like paper or webpage interfaces - I never have to listen to a thing they say so I can talk talk talk to my heart's content. Now, my love of talking led to developing a knack for "turning phrases", especially on subjects about which I am more than usually passionate. That being the case, I can't help but think it would be a good exercise to develop those talents more carefully, to indulge in venting the half-thought thinkings that float through my distracted brain all day. Whether that would be in the form of blogging or more formal composition, I don't know, but I know it's an activity I'm inclined towards and which some people insist I ought pursue.
*SIGH*
[Student returns some books. I check them in. *Beek* *Beek* *Beek* . . . ]
Ooooo, what is this?
(Reading)
