On Sunday evening I planned out my week. So organized! Most of the time I don’t get around to the planning thing until Monday morning. Or sometimes Tuesday afternoon. By Thursday at the absolute latest. Appointments: students, rehearsals, grocery shopping, to do lists and all the et ceteras. The third Wednesday of the month was upcoming, which meant book club. Hooray! I gave myself a little pat on the back for being 90% of the way through this month’s selection, Liliana’s Invincible Summer. The club is managed by an organized and talented librarian who gives us laminated, oversized bookmarks with six months’ worth of books listed, so I peeked at the June selection.
Which turned out to be Liliana’s Invincible Summer.
For the month of May I was supposed to have been reading The Once and Future Witches, a fantasy novel that was 517 pages long. Book club was in three days.
I knew that the group wouldn’t fault me if I showed up without having finished the book. Or even if I hadn’t started. Just a few months back, there had been only two of us (of eight, that particular session) who’d managed to get all the way to the end—561 pages—of The Satanic Verses. The nachos and chicken wings and parmesan fries would flow nonetheless, and we’d talk also about our personal lives and other books and current events and streaming adaptations of books.
However. I had extra time at the moment due to sternal precautions—don’t want to impede the breastbone’s healing process—and a light schedule. After the fog caused by trauma and anesthesia, I’d been trying to read more. Actually been reading more—a little. What better way to see if my concentration had truly improved? 517 pages: challenge accepted!
I frequently write about reading in this blog. I read more than average, but it’s still less than I used to. Once upon a time I indulged in “reading vacations”—days devoted to books, one after another. I’d pour coffee and crack a novel and lose all sense of time passing. I’d come up for air around lunchtime, eat a sandwich, and then read past sunset. That was then. These days, like practically everyone I know, it takes effort for me to read for more than a half hour. I can do it, but it’s work. I blame technology and the pace of modern life, but have the suspicion that I’ve just lost the knack for this skill. That worries me.
Upon researching tips to improve focus, the recommendations tend to fall into three categories. The first involve ways to improve the physical plant. Get enough sleep, exercise, eat a diet rich in fish, berries, walnuts, and leafy greens. The second category regards skills drills: working puzzles and playing games, practicing mindfulness and meditation, reducing multitasking, writing stuff down so the brain doesn’t keep trying to remind you of it, and listening actively to others. The final category is environmental. Putting away devices, using background music or white noise, straightening the workspace, planning breaks, and setting a timer.
I’m a sucker for a timer. The Pomodoro method, which calls for a timer set for 25 minutes, followed by a five-minute break, is similar to what I do when I’m teaching music lessons, with the timer set for whatever’s the lesson duration. This helps me focused on the lesson, rather than Time as she prowls around the room or curls atop the piano. Until she jumps on my lap, whistling her alarm, she’s out of my mind.
I decided to go for broke with the book—half hour segments would be too short—in an enjoyable environment, viz., two hours on the patio. The day was warm, and we’d recently set out the furniture and put up a big blue umbrella for shade. I set the alarm. No need to spend the entire time laser-focused on the task, as the joyless productivity bros recommend. The background noise was taken care of: breeze and birdcall. For breaks there was the middle distance, which helped rest my eyes. Or the chipmunk that ran right by my foot, and the people talking as they passed on the sidewalk. Also Neighbor Nancy’s dog, Skye, who popped by with a slimy tennis ball that she wanted to be thrown.
Little distraction after little distraction, but it was easy to get back to the book. Two hours felt like twenty minutes, by which point I was a fair way in, and still energized enough for a shorter session in the evening.
My takeaway from the experience, if I can presume to add to the attention-span conversation, is that it’s been helpful for me to investigate when my concentration has been most satisfying and easiest. Probably this will generate a different recipe for others. Maybe it’s the rituals around study, that handful of M&Ms, or the sensations of underlining a key point in the text, or the feel of the body working through eight-counts. For me, attention involves letting go of Time, and a strategy for getting hold of her again when I need to.
To be fair, this book was an easy, fast read. (But when you’re building up a skill, it’s helpful to start with something that’s doable.) To be truthful, it wasn’t so absorbing that I feel that I missed much by skimming a few of the more predictable bits. (Although I wish I’d had the time to read the whole thing a little slower.) To pat my own back, by book club night, I’d finished it and was ready and able to contribute something meaningful to the meeting. (And enjoy the friendship and some snacks.)
the jeanSpace 