The Art of Play

and the death of hobbies

Recently, I’ve felt myself slip into a rut.

The monotony of everyday life post-grad in a small town quickly became suffocating. I would dread the drive home from work, knowing an entire afternoon was left gaping, begging to be filled.

But how?

Most of the time, I would fall asleep watching a show, scroll until my head hurt, or talk on the phone with a friend or family member. All in an attempt to pass the time as easily as possible before supper.

I don’t think it takes a lot to see, that is not a sustainable or fulfilling way of life. And while I know that and feel it too, I have to remind myself of the truth many afternoons when I get home.

It is much harder not to do those things. Work is exhausting. For 8 hours a day, something is demanded of you. Emails and meetings flood onto the scene. People calling and texting. Spreadsheets and Google Docs.

When five o’clock hits and the realization that the day is far from over sets in, it can be devastating. There’s dinner to be made, laundry to fold, and about 4 hours to fill. The cycle of giving and working and pouring continues.

This is where hobbies come in.

I never really had the need for hobbies in college. The hobbies that I did have weren’t ones that could easily translate into the life of a 22-year-old graduate. Last year, I lived in a house with 100 other girls. Hours of my afternoon were spent at the dining room table laughing and talking and eating meals prepared for me.

If I wasn’t in class or at a club meeting, I would walk down the hall to see what my friends were doing. Those check-ins often ended in going on some unprompted adventure. Sometimes to Sonic or errand running. Other times it was to pick honey suckles or walk to Wing Wednesday at Jinsei.

Filling my time was never an issue, until now.

I knew postgrad was going to be a difficult transition. There’s so much to miss about the alternate reality of undergrad. But never in a million years would I have thought the hardest part of it all would be filling my time.

I have started believing that our generation has ushered in the death of hobbies.

When you ask someone what they like to do, their response is normally:

“Hang out with friends,”

“listen to music,”

“shop,”

and maybe the occasional,

“workout.”

There’s no more embroidering, sewing, making music, writing poetry, or bike riding.

I truly believe the art of hobby-ing is on the verge of death, and something must be done.

While scrolling on your phone and watching TV are parts of life to be enjoyed, they cannot replace the art of doing.

When I felt most stuck this month, I noticed it was because I wasn’t doing anything. Sure, I was driving to and from work, picking up supper on my way home, and then maybe chatting with my roommates.

But there was no intentional act of creating or doing or making involved. I laid down at night wondering what it was I spent my entire day doing.

I knew there was more to my life than that.

So I decided to play more. To do things with my hands. To incorporate, dare I say, hobbies into my everyday life. Activities and rhythms that brought a newness and excitement to the days I once dreaded.

It started small.

I began making matcha every morning before work. There was an art to whisking the powder into hot water, adding honey and cinnamon and milk into a glass.

I would sip it slowly on the way to work, feeling accomplished. It was 8 am and I had already done something significant for myself.

Another time, I was hungry for steak. I had been bored all afternoon so I drove myself to the grocery store, picked out a filet, and a bottle of wine.

I spent the early evening in my kitchen listening to French music and grilling a steak on my cast-iron skillet. I made potatoes and salad and, after quite a few YouTube tutorials, a perfectly cooked filet. And then I sat down at a candlelit table and enjoyed a meal I had made.

I have a hobby!

Add it to the list: Cooking and barista-ing.

Earlier this week, after a veg of doom-scrolling, I forced myself out of bed and into my walking shoes. It was one of those moments I felt the need to cleanse myself of all of the media I had just consumed. I needed to baptize myself in the quiet and real world.

There’s a walking trail on campus that winds through an old railway. Trees reach their branches overhead, ushering you into their world of soft birdsong and wind chiming the leaves.

I walked for miles under their branches. I saw the runners and walkers around me. I saw moms with strollers and college students with dogs. I saw the girl in red rainboots and the old man jogging.

I didn’t have to book a flight to New York or drive the coast of California to see the actuality of the world and the people who live in it. It had always been all around me.

A third and fourth hobby: walking and people-watching.

For some reason after the walk, I had a craving to draw. If you know me, you probably have never heard me mention anything related to drawing. Why? Because I don’t like doing things I’m not good at.

But deep in my gut was itching to put something, other than words, on paper.

So I drove myself to the only art supply store in Oxford, Walmart. I walked to the art section and bought a sketchbook and oil pastels on my credit card. I spent the rest of my evening up in my bedroom drawing.

I drew a tulip and attempted to recreate a photo of the sunset I had taken earlier that day. Neither were anything of note. But I loved it. I felt energized. It was funny to imagine someone looking into my bedroom and seeing me scribble away at the page like a kindergartener in art class.

Add it to the list: coloring.

I have made countless attempts to seek play in my life. From recording a podcast with my little sister to learning my favorite song on the guitar to reading books about how to write and then actually writing. I’ve listened to music in other languages and dressed up for no reason and made my bed in the morning.

Play is important. Necessary even.

It gives life color and meaning and excitement.

The time between walking through my door and going to bed soon flew by thanks to my ever-growing list of hobbies. I now close my eyes at night, proud of all I created in just a day. And I feel more like myself than I have in a while.

I still struggle to prioritize the art of play. But it has been clear to see that the death of hobbies is the death of me.

Life can be fun, but only if you want it to be.

As your list of hobbies grows, maybe you too will grow.