this blog brakes for breaks
The amount of times I’ve had half a peanut butter sandwich in my mouth, standing at our kitchen island, staring at my phone while I take a lunch break…
When my wife finds me in this state, some of her greatest hits include, “A lunch break includes taking a break from doing all of the other things, you know,” the more gentle, “Please sit,” and the fan (me) favorite, "If there’s not a book or a guitar in your hands, it’s not really a break.”
I know I’m not the only person who’s bad at breaks. Somewhere between building a (re: multiple) business(es) and the winning at the game of modern life by working in all the gaps, it’s easy to over-optimize for where the time goes.
There’s a moment, that came up during my conversation with Matt Reustle and John Candeto on Just Press Record, where they scratch at this idea: you have to spare your own spare time.
Yes, ostensibly, the surrounding conversation was about the overlap between investment and life philosophies, and how we can understand “growth” in the context of complex adaptive systems, but then John snuck this line in,
"Sometimes the best thing to do is like, go outside and walk with a problem." Oh, like it’s that easy. But it is, of course, and he went on, not with some productivity hack, but with the fundamental poetry he’s so good at. And he aimed it at me, without knowing it, because then he threw in, "Or I need to go play guitar, or I need to read poetry."
Matt felt it too. He twisted the knife, again, without knowing it. He explained how his seemingly logical brain somehow shaves 20 seconds off his mile time when certain songs play. The guy who’s side hobby is breaking down complex businesses said that. Seriously. And then he casually threw out, "We don't even understand our own brains to the full capacity."
Beneath the surface, these two brains (successful by any measure, and admirable by anybody who’s sampled their work), were laying out how they valued analog experiences. They were laying out how they don’t think of them as indulgences, so much as essential counterbalances to our increasingly digital life. They were explaining how they work to spare their own spare time.
(note to self: put the peanut butter sandwich down. Not on a paper towel, you savage, put it on a plate, and sit for a second. Look out the window. Pick up a book from that stack you insist on keeping at arms length.)
Analog experiences. They’re not nostalgia. They’re survival.
What if filling the gaps with more analog activities is the key to being better in the rest of our digital domains?
If we look around, others are sparing their own spare time too. Matt described watching neighborhood kids playing football and basketball outside with something approaching reverence. "It just brings me, like, happiness - when I see just kids outside in large groups, playing." He went on, questioning himself, "I never know if it's like old man yelling at cloud... or if there's something to it."
There's something to it.
John didn’t think twice when he said, "I don't know why playing Bob Dylan helps me make better decisions, but I believe it does." It’s alright. He’s all-right.
Where’s the option to create boredom? Where’s the self-elected space-out time? Where’s me remembering I love MF DOOM way more than doom scrolling. Even writing this line, taking a break to figure out it was a Viktor Vaughn song when Doom dropped the “wildin’ out like Bob Dylan’s hair” line, the journey from I wonder to mind-wandering ADHD gap can and should be as fun as it is functional, if not fundamentally healthy.
When John's son was born, literally - at "minute two of his life" – one of his first instincts was to play Led Zeppelin so his son could hear them. Not solely for the baby’s appreciation or even enjoyment, but because it felt necessary, like a ceremonial connection to something deeper than the hospital's beeping monitors. It wasn’t taking away from the moment. It was deepening the moment by attaching more memory, sentimentality, and other nostalgias to it.
Why share the sterile “beep beep beep” of a distant heart monitor when you can point out the faint “squeak thump squeak” of Bonham’s kick drum on “Since I’ve Been Loving You” right???
What we're witnessing isn't just a preference, but a kind of quiet, very analog, rebellion.
When Matt talks about cherishing his old leather bag that keeps improving with age or his mechanical watch that converts his body's energy into power, he's not just appreciating craftsmanship, he's choosing to value what endures over what's merely efficient. He’s layering nostalgias. He’s investing in future distractions, on purpose.
I'm not suggesting we burn our smartphones or delete our digital lives.
I am suggesting:
The most effective analog rebellion isn't a form of rejection – it's a form of integration.
The rebellion is - almost, more of a productive ADHD. It’s seeding opportunities to embrace moments of distraction. It’s finding some abstraction, with an anchor, to something else we love, so it deepens a new experience.
It's understanding why John keeps both books AND guitars in his office. It's recognizing why Matt measures his life between new passports. It's acknowledging why the smell of fresh-cut grass can trigger more authentic memories than a thousand digital photos.
I’m going to commit to sitting while I eat lunch. I’m going to commit to more moments of genuine spacing out, with generally productive bits I enjoy. I’m not saying it’s going to be easy or I’m going to be good at it all of the time, but if these two are this focused on building lives by breaking from digital existences in creative ways, I’m inspired to try harder.
I’m already doing a version of this when I make a note and revisit the list weekly to write and reflect. Make no mistake, this entire Personal Archive project is proof. It’s pre-planning a thoughtful distraction time into my schedule. John and Matt just got me thinking I could do this even more. Why not force book time into the middle of my day, or maybe my afternoon too. Why not wedge a guitar moment in while the computer boots up or shuts down to open and close the day. I’m committing to finding more places than lunch breaks, and maybe not with my leather-wear or Led Zeppelin interjections, but to embrace my versions of those ideas.
Because the next good idea you or I have probably won’t come exclusively from an algorithm. The next good idea I have will, now and always, emerge from that sacred space between digital efficiency and analog experience. That’s the integration zone where wholeness lives. That’s the brilliance in the breaks.
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