Productivity

Productivity

I am perplexed by my own productivity. I don’t understand it. It seems like a bottomless well. As a psychologist, I’d like to have a theory about it. It’s something of a burden, truth be told, though not an annoyance. It seems out of my control. I wish I could bottle and sell it (I would make a million). The best I can say is that it is a combination of life-long persistence and a certain lightness of being (whatever that means). I observe that it is accompanied by other sorts of productivity, if that is the word; it isn’t just philosophy and matters of the intellect. My impression (corroborated by others) is that my tennis game improves whenever I step on the court—not by a lot, but perceptibly. This comes from simple repetition but also from an openness to trying new techniques and close observation of other players (there is no magic potion or “inspiration”). It’s not an accident. I find the same thing with my singing and guitar-playing: a steady, predictable improvement—though always surprising. Even my drumming, which I’ve been doing for 62 years. Knife throwing too. It feels like my brain and body are willing to keep developing. No doubt this will grind to a sickening halt one day—maybe next week, who knows? But not yet; not yet. My memory is not as good as it was, and the same for my hearing (vision is okay except for reading). I’m planning an athletic romance in the near future, and intellectual romances are still on the cards. Perhaps that’s what it is: different kinds of romance.