Lately, I’ve been practicing what I call “active non-doing.” It’s a liminal way of being where I observe the things I’m “supposed” to do—as a mother, a wife, the caretaker of my dying father, a manager, an editor, a friend, a homemaker, even a musician. I notice all the deeply ingrained ways I believe I’m supposed to show up. And rather than immediately acting on my inclinations, I’ve been just not doing anything for a little while and seeing what happens.
This practice doesn’t come naturally to me. By nature, I’m a doer. For me, the pull to act is a whole-body sensation: tension in my chest, flush cheeks, hot hands, as well as a rush to judgment and immeditate problem-solving. My whole being doesn’t just scream “do something”; it…