Burnout, wool skeins, and the art of deliberate rest

When Words Go on Strike

Last week I skipped writing. No, I was not unwell or travelling or roped into one of Mani’s projects. I just sat in my chair, my mind full of muddled thoughts like ingredients in a witch’s cauldron, simmering, even as it drizzled outside with a sudden drop from a humid 34 degrees C to a wet 18°C degrees. The only issue or problem was, the words had gone on strike.

It was as if they got sick of me and said, “Let’s bunk class today and go on chhutti (holiday).

Why?

Because normally, every Thursday I begin my two-day twelve-hour writing ritual- practically a job (unpaid yet immensely satisfying): research, reading, writing, deleting, rewriting, photo-hunting, editing, formatting, and then convincing Mani that this final draft really is final. (Is it ever?) Then it is released on Saturday, looking perhaps clean and effortless, like those people who claim they ‘just put something together’ when they turn up in a perfectly colour-coordinated outfit.

But last week, the engine stalled. The brain's computer gave the strange, but practical instruction-Switch it off, switch it on.

System error: Words on strike

There were, of course, the usual suspects: month-end chores, ignored paperwork, forgotten Whatsapp messages, a dinner that became a minor logistical epic. (Who knew finding broccoli and zucchini could feel like a detective’s job in October in Lucknow? And whoever has even heard of coconut milk?), with that all-familiar lingering exhaustion of pretending to be an organised adult. Somewhere between all this, my creative battery blinked red. The sound of phut went unheard.

At first, I thought I should at least post a polite note, “Due to unforeseen circumstances….” But that only triggers a chain reaction of concern: 'Hope you are okay!' 'Are you travelling?' Try lemon-ginger tea!’, all moving and ego-boosting, but requiring more typing than writing the post.

So, I decided to do something revolutionary. I issued myself the permission slip to abstain from writing. I did not chase words. I let the cold, wet weekend pass quietly, no post, no explanations, no ‘digital’ trace of guilt.

‘Even machines need rest,’ I told myself. “Yes”, my brain replied, “but you’re a homegrown model, that runs on stories, spices and yarn, and mild madness.”

Shamelessly smiling at my mind’s instructions, I just existed, slowly, deliciously, uselessly. And in that silence, I remembered something: rest is not absence. It is incubation.

And you know what? Nothing happened. It continued to drizzle for two days. The Earth kept rotating. Nobody rang up the emergency hotline for bloggers.

Now, here’s the funny thing- whenever I admit to feeling tired or overdone, one acquaintance inevitably always says, “Well, at our age…” As if fatigue is an exclusive membership benefit of middle age. But have you seen the 20-somethings lately? They are forever dissatisfied, losing focus, switching jobs, changing careers, and taking breaks for mental health ‘from their co-working spaces’ faster than I can click the mouse. All those bean bags, mood lighting and plant milk lattes have their part in the cast for their full-blown burnout theatre.

No, burnout does not check your year of birth, but only how many tabs you have left open, literally and metaphorically.

In our democracy exhaustion should be considered a democratic right, allowed to anyone from a toddler to the one in their last moment of life. And so, if my younger friends feel it right to rebrand ahteir fatigue as 'mindful rest' I can certainly call mine a 'creative sabbatical'.

Now the words are expected to come back, refreshed, rehydrated, and better behaved. Or maybe they’ll extend their vacation and send me a rude email saying, “Extending vacation, not obligated to give an explanation.”

Either way, I learned something from this: silence is not emptiness, Sometimes, it  might just mean the tank is refuelling. The brain, given half a chance, knows how to nap.

People often suggest I write a few posts in advance for weeks like this. But if I start running on autopilot, who’s left to live the stories? If I stockpile posts for emergencies, how would I stay current, and talk to you all in the present?

And before anyone asks- no, this Recharge Plan isn’t the same as spuddling. That was Holi-level chaos; this is deliberate rest. (https://anupamaexcursions.blogspot.com/2025/03/the-great-holi-spuddle.html

P.S.- One admission - my weekend was not wholly unproductive. I took out my wool stash, knitting needles, the eye-candy folder of patterns, trying to select what to make this winter. My mind felt the same excitement as standing before a sumptuous buffet of exotic dishes, trying to decide what to taste, eat or ignore. The thought that the simple two stitches - knit and purl can create thousands of useful, beautiful items, was food for the brain.

Photo:A Bee in the Bonnet

                                                                                               - Anupama S Mani