I’ve had much fodder for reflection on procrastination in the last week or so. I’ve managed to avoid both desired and necessary tasks (such as writing or laundry) while still staying awake till the wee hours with the important work of advancing yet another level in an online game.
If there’s one thing I’m truly expert at, it’s putting off what needs doing.
The nature of my procrastination
I used to describe my procrastination as “not wanting to do something.” As in, “I don’t want to do laundry; I’d rather advance yet another level in this stupid online game.” I would think of it as a competition between an immediate pleasurable good and a remote and/or difficult good. My vice lay in preferring instant gratification.
But this past week, I noticed something. It’s not so much “I don’t want to do {X} (because I’d rather do {Y})” as it is “I want NOT to do {X}.” That is, I’m actively avoiding some activity {X} that I know is good and even necessary – even enjoyable! – and will accept nearly any substitute {Y}, even things that are less enjoyable than {X}, rather than do what is good.
I’m avoiding laundry. I’m running away from laundry.
So … am I afraid of laundry?
Procrastination and fear
I honestly don’t know what I’m afraid of. My shrink calls this, “self-destructive behavior,” which is one of the few psychological terms I comprehend immediately.
But it is absolutely clear to me that I am not “preferring” one good over another. Instead, I am fleeing headlong from something I know to be good, and using whatever excuse is at hand to aid my flight.
It seems that I am intent on sabotaging my own desire and efforts at happiness. There is something about happiness, virtue, goodness, that utterly terrifies me and that I am unwilling (as yet) to face directly.
Virtue and psychology
Psychology and virtue approach the problem from almost opposite angles. Psychology starts with understanding the problem, its roots and causes, and proceeds to prescribe a cure. Virtue, on the other hand, starts with action, and expects understanding to follow upon developing a habit of right action.
I think both approaches are valuable – at least, they have been to me. They both have given me tools to live a better life than I have before, and to hope for a life better still in the future.
But neither of them works alone. Psychology without virtue leads to navel-gazing. And virtue without psychology leads to ignoring the underlying causes so long as they can be covered by mechanical action.
I know I’m over-simplifying. Classical virtue ethics, after all, is all about the formation of one’s character – and not about the mechanical “rightness” of one’s actions. And psychology ultimately seeks a healing of the whole person, including one’s choices and behavior.
Where I am, right now
So I have no profound advice to give here. All I have today is a new recognition of where I am, and a hope that this recognition will allow me to stand fast in the face of my laundry.



I find this tendency in myself–and I think there is a sort of resistance to doing everyday things because we feel reduced by them. We feel much better if we can think of ourselves doing big and important things–even if it’s only a fantasy of big and important things in the world of Tetris or whatever–rather than the laundry.
I struggle with this a lot–because we need to be shrunk and we need to experience our ordinariness. But as my professional life grows I’m starting to think about delegating those things so my children and my work are the only things I do. But I do see that in shutting door on these small and ordinary things I’m shutting the door on what St. Therese has described as doing the tiniest things with the greatest love.
I also think it puts me in jeopardy of feeling Big. And Important. And Grand. And Successful.
So I’m struggling. That’s not to say should I hire a housekeeper to do the laundry twice a week, that that necessarily leads me into sin, but I’m very mindful of how the laundry quite literally sanctifies me.
It’s one of those things where discernment and trust are everything.