The Permission to Be Delightfully Unproductive

 

There are days when I paint strawberries.

Not because I need a strawberry illustration.

Not because I have a product in mind.

Not because I am developing a collection, creating content, testing a concept, or planning to sell anything afterward.

Sometimes I paint strawberries because I want to see if I can paint them differently each time.

Sometimes I put blobs of paint on the paper and let the blobs determine the strawberry’s shape. 

And sometimes that is enough.

I think we have become far too practiced at asking what everything is for.

What will this become?

Can I monetize it?

Can I post it?

Can I turn it into content?

Can I sell it?

Can I teach it?

Can I build something around it?

Even joy has somehow acquired a business plan.

A hobby cannot simply be a hobby anymore. It has to become a side hustle.

A quiet afternoon becomes a content opportunity.

A new skill becomes something we should master.

A beautiful moment becomes something we instinctively reach for our phones to document.

And somewhere in all of that usefulness, we can forget what it feels like to do something for absolutely no reason except that it delighted us.

So lately, I have been giving myself permission to be delightfully unproductive.

Not lazy.

Not checked out.

Not avoiding my life.

Just temporarily uninterested in extracting value from every single hour of it.

There is a difference.

Sometimes I want to sit with my watercolors and paint something that may never leave the page.

Sometimes I want to read a novel without thinking about whether it could inspire an article.

Sometimes I want to buy a ridiculously cute pen even though I already own enough pens to supply a very small school.

Fine. A medium school. 

Sometimes I want to rage paint lilies. 

Just because. 

Sometimes I want to spend twenty minutes mixing colors simply because I want to know what happens when one shade meets another.

Nothing needs to come from it.

That may be the most delicious part.

We live in a culture that loves measurable things.

Progress.

Growth.

Output.

Numbers.

Results.

And I understand why. I love creating things. I love building things. I love seeing an idea become something tangible.

But I do not want every beautiful thing I touch to immediately become work.

I do not want to look at every new interest and ask how quickly I can turn it into something profitable.

I do not want my curiosity to feel like an unpaid employee waiting for instructions.

Some things should remain wonderfully inefficient.

A hobby you are terrible at but adore.

A book that teaches you absolutely nothing useful.

A painting that never becomes a print.

A recipe you make once because it sounded interesting.

A notebook filled with thoughts nobody else will ever read.

An afternoon spent rearranging tiny things until they make you happy.

There is a peculiar kind of freedom in knowing that none of it has to justify itself.

It does not need an audience.

It does not need engagement.

It does not need a price tag.

It does not need to become part of your personal brand.

It can simply exist because you enjoyed making it exist.

And perhaps that is why these little pockets of unproductivity can feel so restorative.

There is no performance attached to them.

No deadline.

No expectation.

No one waiting for the finished version.

You can be clumsy.

You can change your mind.

You can abandon something halfway through.

You can spend an unreasonable amount of time painting one tiny strawberry and then decide you do not even like it.

And nothing terrible happens.

You simply spent part of your life being curious.

That is not wasted time.

Maybe the problem is that we have been taught to measure time only by what it produces.

But what if an hour produces nothing except pleasure?

What if all it gives you is a softer mood?

A new favorite color.

Paint on your fingers.

A half-finished page.

A strange little memory of an afternoon when you made something simply because you wanted to.

I think that counts.

In fact, I think it counts for quite a lot.

So I am keeping some parts of my life deliciously useless.

Some interests will never become income.

Some hours will never become content.

Some things I make will never become products.

And sometimes, the only thing a strawberry painting needs to become…

is a strawberry painting.

That is enough.

More than enough, actually.

It made me happy. 🍓🎨

—-

With elegance and quiet fire,
Lady E

Founder, Glow by Lady E 
An editorial space for stories, art, and intentional living