My husband, a journalist, has been known to turn entire weekends into orgies of repose, changing out of his bathrobe only at a minute past six on a Saturday, when one can respectably initiate the cocktail hour. This despite the fact that he works under a daily deadline. He knows how to procrastinate effectively, and with style. Sleeping, watching TV, eating, and generally being good to himself are all part of the creative process, he insists. "I have to allow time for an idea to gestate," he says, "and let the guilt over the deadline build up steam, and then the piece just spills forth and writes itself."
What he's doing, when he's doing nothing, is letting the universe manipulate him, according to Lou Marinoff, a philosopher and the founding president of the American Philosophical Practitioners Association. My fellow deadline slaves and I, on the other hand, are forever trying to manipulate the universe, fussing over details and imagining the sky will fall if we sit still. Marinoff is the author of Plato, Not Prozac!, which promotes a philosophical approach to modern pressures, prescribing the wisdom of the ages as an alternative to, say, tranquilizers and self-help guides. Over the phone recently, he assures me that my husband's idleness and procrastination are grounded in a venerable Eastern tradition. "Chinese philosophy—the I Ching, for example—is full of advice about the natural order of the universe and the correct timing of actions," he says. "Indian philosophy also gives equal weight to the paths of action and inaction." The right timing, he explains, can be just as productive as effort and sweat: "Sometimes we fulfill our responsibility not by acting but by doing nothing."
My children seem to understand this maxim intuitively when, after a forced march of museum visits or a spurt of housekeeping, they implore, "We just want to be with you." I remind myself to stop and listen to their meandering, fascinating stories. Kids are surprisingly adept at doing nothing, and the most rewarding exchanges with them usually unfold during unscheduled moments—in the supermarket line or when they pile into our bed on Sunday mornings.
But languor doesn't come naturally to me. My own hyperactive approach is informed by the unglamorous and less worthy-sounding "time is money" ethos—the one that begat the Industrial Revolution and the TV dinner. I'd do well, Marinoff advises, to remember that time is our most valuable resource and that no amount of money will buy more of it. "If you never let your children out of your sight, never miss a deadline, and try to be on top of everything all the time," he says, "you're doing more harm than good." He suggests a therapeutic technique: "Think about one of the many things that you're worried about, that you think you have to do, and try just not doing it. And see if the world comes to an end."