Do You Remember Being Bored?

Seriously...doesn't it seem like about a million years since you've uttered the words, "I'm bored?" If I had to guess, for me it may have been WAAAAAAAY back when I was a pre-teen and the words were most likely directed at my sweet mom in an irritatingly whiny voice while I lay draped over a couch watching Gilligan's Island. (Not looking at my cell phone, mind you, since they hadn't been invented yet!!!)During a recent group coaching call I shared prompts to help us tap into memories and emotions of the summers of our youth and then mine those memories to set creative intentions for the weeks ahead.I have to admit I was surprised to remember (with fondness no less!) the feeling of boredom. I wondered, is that a feeling I'll ever experience again? Would I want to? Could I even if I tried?Perhaps the "boredom" I reminisced was simply the restless feeling of youth combined with not having any truly pressing responsibilities ... no homework due ... no job to clock into ... nothing I absolutely had to do ~ once my bed was made and our gerbil Scamper was fed anyway.In other words, my boredom, meant complete and utter freedom! Who in their right mind would complain about that? Whoever said "Youth is indeed wasted on the young" was onto something!When I thought about it a bit further, I realized that the few times I could remember coming even close to the feeling of "boredom" as a grown-up were occasions when I'd spent deliciously unstructured time visiting a friend or family member's home. Time spent flipping through a magazine, cat-napping under a ceiling fan, or enjoying a cocktail and conversation while my host prepared dinner for example.By physically removing myself from  the "have-to-dos" in my own home (working, doing laundry, cleaning, paying bills, making meals, etc...) I enjoyed a glimpse of the unfettered free time that once-upon-a-time in my youth would've made me whine "I'm so booooored!"Now, as an adult, I think the more apt word to describe that enviable state would be "Lull" ~ as in ~ "a temporary interval of  quiet or lack of activity" and/or "to cause to relax." When's the last time you gave yourself permission to experience guilt-free lull?I invite you to grab your journal and use the following simple steps to devise a few delightfully doable ways to refresh your creative spirit with some soul-nuturing lull time this summer. ~  1. Think back to the summers of your youth. In which moments did you experience the free-floating feeling of "lull?" Make a quick list of all the memories that come to you.~ 2. Choose one of your favorite memories from your list. What's one super simple way you can recreate the essence of that memory for yourself this summer? ~ 3. Take a look at your calendar. Choose a date and time to treat yourself to the rejuvenating lull experience you came up with and schedule it. (*HINT ~ make it delightfully doable by scheduling as little as 15 minutes so you'll actually get to it rather than putting it off waiting for a huge chunk of uninterrupted time to magically become available.) ~ 4. Share these prompts with a friend and invite her to be your gentle accountability partner. Be sure to send each other a "Ta-Dah!" text once you've each enjoyed your lull time to celebrate!~ 5. Rinse and repeat throughout the summer months. If you live in the Dallas/Ft. Worth area, here's another fun option ~ join me for one of my three upcoming summer Creative Oasis Retreats! Though we absolutely engage in a variety of activities and aren't always especially quiet, I've designed my Creative Oasis Retreats to wrap you in a relaxing state of gently guided "lull" in order to nurture and rejuvenate your creative spirit! (Take a peek inside a Creative Oasis Retreat here.)Here's wishing you a summer filled with lovely balance of lull woven in with energizing Creative Oasis Moments of pure joy!xoxoJill SaveSaveSaveSaveSaveSaveSaveSaveSaveSaveSaveSaveSaveSaveSaveSaveSaveSaveSaveSaveSaveSaveSaveSaveSaveSaveSaveSaveSaveSaveSaveSaveSaveSaveSaveSaveSaveSaveSaveSaveSaveSaveSaveSaveSaveSaveSaveSaveSaveSaveSaveSaveSaveSaveSaveSaveSaveSaveSaveSaveSaveSaveSaveSaveSaveSave