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The art of procrastination
Published
2 ans agoon
[simplicity-save-for-later]Procrastination: The art of delaying tasks until the last minute just because we can.
“But then I noticed something. On the whole, I had a reputation as a person who got a lot done and made a reasonable contribution. . . . A paradox. Rather than getting to work on my important projects, I began to think about this conundrum. I realized that I was what I call a structured procrastinator: a person who gets a lot done by not doing other things.” The Art of Procrastination: A Guide to Effective Dawdling, Lollygagging and Postponing, by John R. Perry.
Procrastination is quite a curious concept that every person has experienced at least once in their life. Does a non-procrastinator even exist? I think it’s merely a term made to make procrastinators feel more anxious about putting off work until the very last second.
However, if I were to describe what presumably a non-procrastinator is, it would be a person who would make a schedule and stick to it. Someone organized and rational enough to start their tasks early on. We have all tried to be that person at one point or another in our lives, one day we decide that we have had enough of missed deadlines and stressful, guilt-filled “free time” and make a schedule to complete work on time, sleep well and organize our day.
But why does it never work? No one wakes up thinking “it’s a beautiful day to waste my time doing absolutely nothing so I can stress about it later”. What experts, authors, researchers, and activists might say is to “just do it”, just wake up at 5 am for no reason whatsoever, use schedules, read a book, go out for a run, and might as well win an Olympic medal.
Trying to get to know more about the solutions to procrastination, I once attended a workshop about “Time Management” by Katy Smithy Founder and Chief Marketing Officer at Smallwave Marketing. She explained to us that the best thing to do is “eat the frog first thing in the morning” which is first of all animal cruelty but most importantly, what chronic procrastinators fail to do the most. When prioritizing and setting up a schedule, we’re well aware that we should start with number 1 but for some reason, number 55 is calling out our name. We end up doing the somewhat less important tasks and shuffling the schedule over and over until it’s 23:59 on a Sunday and the project due to 00:00 is not even close to finished. So, while we’re well aware of procrastination and its consequences, why do we do it?
Inside the mind of a procrastinator
Most of the time it’s our anxiety holding us back from completing important tasks. It might be a lack of self-confidence or a case of impostor syndrome (a psychological pattern in which an individual constantly doubts their skills and accomplishments). It could also be disorganization and cognitive distortion (overestimating the time we have), perfectionism (wouldn’t we all like to think it’s the cause), fear of the future and/or failure, failure to see the near result, or most importantly the feeling of lack of control i.e. Nadine wanted to learn Latin (for some reason). Her Latin teacher gave her mandatory homework for next week. Since now she HAS to do it, Nadine doesn’t feel like doing it anymore. If we see the tasks as mandatory instead of a fun activity, all motivation suddenly seems to go away.
Some procrastinators like to think they work better under stressful situations and tight deadlines. In some cases, it might turn out to be true, but in others, it’s a coping mechanism. Even though all these characteristics are common for all procrastinators, we fall into sub-categories of procrastination.
The overbooker and the Revenge Bedtime procrastinator:
You might be thinking, why these two types? You might also be dosing off at this point thinking why am I reading an article about procrastination while procrastinating on doing my 15 tasks due for tomorrow.
I think these two types are the most common but at the same time, the least talked about.
The overbooker thinks they’re always busy and don’t have time for anything else. But if they were to summarize what they did all day long, it wouldn’t be as much as they anticipated. It’s mainly due to poor time management and easily getting distracted.
John Perry the author of “The Art of Procrastination: A Guide to Effective Dawdling, Lollygagging and Postponing” further explains: “The key idea is that procrastinating does not mean doing absolutely nothing. Procrastinators seldom do absolutely nothing; they do marginally useful things, like gardening or sharpening pencils, or making a diagram of how they will reorganize their files when they get around to it.
Why does the procrastinator do these things? Because they are a way of not doing something more important. If all the procrastinator had left to do was to sharpen some pencils, no force on earth could get him to do it.” I must admit I still haven’t read his book, but I’m sure I’ll get to it when I finish writing my 15th revised schedule this week.
As for the Revenge Bedtime procrastination, it’s the phenomenon of delaying going to bed to often mindlessly scroll on your phone for hours. When everything is out of one’s control, “rebelling” against their sleep schedule might seem like the only thing under their control. It’s a very common issue especially for students due to long study hours and it results in disturbing their biological clock (Biological clocks are organisms’ natural timing devices, regulating the cycle of circadian rhythms) as well as low concentration, bad memory…
How do I save myself from the guilt trip of procrastination and get the job done?
You need to find what works the best for you. Some vouch for the Pomodoro technique (A cycle of 25-minutes of work and 5 minutes of rest) others might prefer the previously mentioned Eat the Frog technique, the glass jar technique, or the 80/20 Rule.
The Glass Jar: Rocks, Pebbles, Sand:
This technique focuses mainly on prioritization. The Rocks are the most important tasks, the Pebbles with medium priority and the Sand represents the least important tasks. If you fill up the jar with sand and pebbles, there wouldn’t be any space left for the Rocks. Once you start with the Rocks, everything can fit.
The 80/20 Rule:
It means that 80% of the results are caused by 20% of your efforts. When applied to time management, one needs to recognize the 20% and focus on them to optimize their work.
Finally, give yourself prior deadlines to the ones set so even if you’re late to your deadlines, you still have time. I think merely asking yourself why you do it and trying to understand the root of the problem is a good way to start. Once you learn how to take advantage of your procrastination, you can only go up from there.You never know, you might even end up writing an article about it.
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Chapter 3 : Odysseus, The Fever of war.
Published
2 semaines agoon
8 mars 2024 [simplicity-save-for-later]The heavy wooden door slowly opened to a vast candlelit hall. My gaze slowly adjusted to the dancing lights as they shimmered and burned on the tall onyx walls. The lack of a throne and the absence of courtsmen were the only things that shifted the thought of it being a room of royalty, yet everything else pointed to such. The hall seemed to go on for miles and nothing indicated an end to it, and what seemed to be a hundred tapestries hung down on either side of me. Their presence was mighty, as the colours of every tapestry were highlighted by the flame of the massive sconces that adorned the walls. They radiated life and I half thought they could speak, until they did.
All tapestries were knit with a scene of a heroic story, and as the door closed behind me, the eyes on every character of each story shifted towards me. The silence of the hall broke as they all started to whisper in unison. I must return to Ithaca, shrieked a man on every tapestry that seemed to be a part of all of them. The scene made me jolt with shock, but eventually my ears were accustomed to the murmur of the pictures and I made myself walk to see what secrets they hold.
The first tapestry on my right depicted a young man in his early twenties standing beneath a tall olive tree. His long auburn hair draped broad muscular shoulders that portrayed a life of labour and his beard framed a distinctive square jaw. His crimson tunic was tied to his waist with a golden belt and his black hooded cape brushed the hill he stood on as he looked down on a great field filled with cattle.On his back hung a mighty oaken bow with gilded tips and a quiver full of arrows. His eyes flamed with a sense of wits and cunning, and as locked his eyes with mine, he seemed to read into my soul. He smiled amicably as he started to speak.
“Greetings, friend. Do you require guidance?”
“Guidance is the only thing I require. But first, may I ask you who you are? I must admit your appearance is quite puzzling.” I answered, looking forward to his response.
“My apologies.” laughed the man, “I am not the shepherd you might think I am, if only that were true. I am Odysseus, Son of Laertes and Prince of Ithaca.”
“And why does someone of royalty need to tend to goats and sheep?” I asked as my intrigue grew.
“If you spoke to a prince of Mycenae in this manner, they would have your tongue in pieces before the end of your sentence.” replied Odysseus smiling, “But this is not Mycenae. My father taught me to know my land in order for me to rule it. Besides, I grew fond of these fields, the peace helps me think.”
“And what trouble do you have on your mind?” I asked.
“The war, my dear friend. A great war is coming and I am to be asked to hold a vow I took nigh on ten years ago. To be truthful, I am not keen on fighting. I am accustomed to the dull life of Ithaca and I do not wish to die only for bards to sing about me to kings I do not know. Heroic deeds are for the foolish and the mad.” sighed the prince as he answered.
But you are dead, I thought as I smiled sadly to the young hopeful soul of Odysseus. I decided not to broach the subject and I started walking down the hall to see the rest of the tapestries. The whispers grew louder as I slowly strolled and looked at the marvels of Odysseus’ life. One portrayed the prince wrestling with a boar that had his tusk thrusted deep into his leg. His first taste of battle, I thought bitterly. Another showed Odysseus with his great bow in his arms and an arrow piercing the eye of a wolf sixty yards away. Quite a man, I remarked and my eyes darted to a tapestry showing two men that looked like nothing but the highest of kings, puzzled at the look of Odysseus as he seemed to feign madness. What war can be so dreadful to make a prince act like a fool? I pondered, then I saw the one right next to it, with the picture of the prince ending his charade as he looked at his young children standing in front of a running carriage.
And so Odysseus took up arms and armour and sailed to war. My heart broke bit by bit as I saw the once Shepherd Prince of Ithaca grow wearier and warier as the years turned. His auburn hair started to whiten little by little as new scars marked his body on every new tapestry, each with its own story, and the whispers grew into screams with every step of my walk. I saw him wrestling heroes thrice his size and locked in arms with a dozen warriors. He appeared calm when other kings were in fits of rage and he looked stern when disciplining his men. As the war made other kings into heroes, it made Odysseus into a soldier.
I walked further down, witnessing the atrocities of a war that never seemed to end. Visions of dismembered bodies and rotten flesh made my skin crawl as I saw what the gods have inflicted upon the greek. I saw plagues turn kings into hollow corpses and bring the youth to their deathbeds before they saw the world. Dreams shattered and hopes crumbled and Odysseus stood vigil, and slowly his soul kept on fading.
Then I stood staring at the mighty Trojan Horse, standing high on the ruins of Troy. the city burned and Odysseus’ eyes burned with it. The Best of the Greeks, he was named after the death of Achilles, and he wore the title like a badge of honour. The war went on for ten bitter years and what would become of the Shepherd Prince was a matter I was aching to discover.
My feet began to pick up pace as I made my way down the hall. I must return to Ithaca, rang like bells in my head, half driving me to madness, and the fires started to dim as Odysseus set sail and embarked on his journey home. I could see a thousand dreams in his broad smile and the laughter of his men, but his eyes betrayed a sense of sadness that I could not understand. Unease pushed me closer to the tapestry and words I did not think to say slipped through my lips.
“Congratulations on a war well fought, Prince Odysseus.” I initiated.
“I haven’t been a prince for ten years.” he replied, smiling, as his eyes locked with mine. “A decade listening to the barking of Menelaus and Agamemnon and you forget you are royalty. But now all is done and soon, if the gods are good, I once again will be the prince of goats and rocks.”
“May the winds be fair to you and your own.” I sincerely wished, as the thrill of his story made me forget my death and his.
“If they are not, my dear wife Penelope would fight Zeus himself for a fast voyage. God I miss her, and little Telemachus would be a grown man by now.” He daydreamed, and as I saw that the tapestries did not end, sadness pushed me from answering and I walked away from the tapestry.
The whispers started to ebb as I watched his journey through seas that did not seem to end. The tapestries put forth a story that was a harsher hell for Odysseus than the underworld could ever be. His men kept on dying one by one as they fought with cannibals and Cyclopes. Hunger withered their strength and the storms of the Mediterranean Sea sealed their fate. They landed on a hundred islands and none of them Ithaca, as the winds disoriented them like they were toys for the gods. They found kindness in witches and slavery in Nymphs. Sleep was scarce, for Odysseus no longer trusted his own soldiers. A soldier who never left the war, I thought sourly.
As I watched Odysseus turn grey with age and hardship, the black walls of the cave seemed to shake with the sound of pounding heartbeats. I felt like the hall almost came to an end, for the fires almost turned to cinders. Near the end, I was met with a tapestry that would have broken my heart to pieces if I had one. The fates made it so Odysseus was to see the Underworld before his own demise. I saw the Prince of Ithaca on the edge of this hideous realm, surrounded by the souls of all the soldiers that fought beside him. He saw Ajax, Achilles, Patroclus and every warrior lost in the battles of Troy, and all looked more alive than Odysseus. The pounding heart thundered mightily and I knew that the Best of the Greeks carried their memory on his shoulders every way he went.
The fires died out on my long march down the hall and I knew he reached the end. Feelings of both grief and thrill rose through me, for I desperately wanted to know if the poor soldier returned to his home. The last tapestry hanging down the walls of Odysseus’ shrine was the biggest, and with it the heartbeats sounded like drums of war. The prince that dreamed of being a shepherd was once again standing on the hills of Ithaca. His hair was bleached with the horrors he endured and his back was bent with decades of loss and sorrow. His battle scars were covered in armour and he could not keep still as he paced around with his rusty sword in hand. Tears streamed down my cheeks as I reluctantly approached the King of Ithaca.
“I must return to Ithaca!” yelled Odysseus with the harshest of voices.
“But you made it, King Odysseus, you made it to your home.” I replied gravely.
“No, no, no, not this barren island. This is not my home. The hills, they do not feel the same. I cannot find peace beneath these trees and so this must not be Ithaca. Wherever I run, I hear them. A thousand hearts beating like hammers in my head and I cannot stop them. I cannot stay in these lands any longer. Athena has not called upon me in years and I long for her callings. I prayed and I prayed for peace, yet no god has blessed me, why didn’t they? I was the Best of the Greeks and I must return to Ithaca, Ithaca, Ithaca…” there was madness in his words as he spoke, and I knew Odysseus was no longer.
I jumped away from the tapestry, as my mind can no longer handle the cruel stream of thought that haunts Odysseus through every moment of his death. The war ended in Troy but it lived on in Odysseus, and who were unlucky enough to survive it. He was shaped by battle and broken by grief, and I closed my eyes and prayed long for this soldier to finally find his peace.
Written by : Hachem Saihi.
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