Following the S-Curves

A week ago, I hit the “publish” button on my essay on Meandering and felt the immediate rush of worry.

Was that my last essay? What if my ideas dry up?

I have these thoughts every Sunday afternoon. To counteract this weekly onset of doubt, I do something simple: I immediately outline my next essay. Sometimes it’s just a few bullet points; other times, I quickly free-write a paragraph or two. I’ve learned it doesn’t matter how I start, only that putting something, anything, on paper settles my worries.

Pushing past that onrush of fear is important. When I worry about where my next idea will come from, I focus too hard. My fear of running dry of ideas closes my mind to possibilities. I become so wrapped up in my self-imposed weekly deadline and the pressure to “deliver” that I miss the magic of the process and stifle the organic way my ideas usually come to light, something I truly delight in. To use a driving metaphor (and I know you’ll all forgive me for this), it’s a bit like plugging your destination into GPS, determined to get there as quickly as possible, and missing the brilliant rainbow outside the side window, or the friendly neighbor waving from the corner.

Once I scribble down those few thoughts about the next essay, my worries ease and my mind is liberated. Great, I’ve got it started. I can see where I’m going. My mind begins to meander, and I go about my business. Then something funny usually happens: at some point over the next few days, a conversation, event, or encounter will inspire me to write about a completely different topic than the ideas pieced together in my worried state on Sunday afternoon.

These concerns about ideas, and the search for inspiration for the next project or the next move, aren’t unique to me. Musicians, filmmakers, and artists frequently worry that their latest creative effort might be the best they’ll ever do, that they’ll never top it. We don’t have to be in contention for an Oscar or a Grammy to suffer this affliction; these doubts haunt us all from time to time. In the past few weeks, I’ve talked to three friends facing big changes. Two are contemplating retirement, and a younger friend is considering a job shift. All shared some version of the worry that afflicts me every Sunday afternoon: What’s next? And it goes well beyond retirement and essay writing. Whether it’s a job change, the ending of a relationship or friendship, or a recent graduation, the question is often the same: What happens now, when uncertainty sets in?

When staring down into a void—when worried about the next idea, the next anything—my instinct has always been to make a plan, to run from the emptiness and doubt, to set out directly for a destination, any destination. Sometimes that’s the right thing to do, but other times it’s not. This meandering I’ve grown to love, the conscious decision to hold back from filling the hours and days with… well, anything, is still a work in progress. Hence the Sunday essay worries, and my little trick to ease my discomfort with not knowing what comes next.

Last week, I wrote about the wonderful things that can happen when we meander along a winding course with no goal in mind and no urgent destination, sharing examples from my U.S. road trip. Those serendipitous adventures are a lovely benefit of meandering, but other good things come from following a winding course free of deadlines and expectations. Nature’s own meandering provides a perfect metaphor for how “going with the flow” inspires ideas and nurtures connection.

As I delved into the meaning of meander while writing that essay, I learned that in a meandering river, the S-shaped curves are formed by erosion and deposits caused by different speeds of water flow across a landscape. The faster-flowing water on the outer bend erodes the riverbank, while the slower water on the inner bend deposits soil.

I like to think of my own meandering in this way—like water shaping its path. When things move fast, I have my blinders on and erosion occurs. I miss things; opportunities pass unheeded. The slow flow around the S-curves fortifies me. During those wandering moments, I absorb and learn from my surroundings, generate ideas, and connect with friends and family in meaningful ways. Meandering creates precious space to listen thoughtfully and share deeply while enjoying a dram, sipping tea, or taking a walk with others. It creates ample opportunities to talk with myself. And who knows what can come of that?

That slower current showed up in my own life on Friday. I had a meeting in downtown Boston, and as I was finishing up, I called a friend to invite her to a music event in a few weeks’ time. As we talked, she said she wished I was closer to her apartment in Back Bay so we could see each other in person. I was in my meandering mode and told her I’d be there in 20 minutes. We talked for an hour in her sunny living room, and as I was leaving—coat in hand—she made a comment that gave me an “aha” moment about a difficult chapter I’m writing for my memoir. We discussed it, and when I left her building, I had the answer to a challenge I’d grappled with for months—all because I shifted course that afternoon, left room for conversation, and followed where my thoughts wanted to go. A bit like those shower aha moments that come when our minds are uncluttered by the problem at hand.

What’s lovely about this process of erosion and deposition is that it happens through the tiniest variations in the riverbed. It doesn’t take momentous or catastrophic events to change a river’s—or a life’s—course. Over time, these small shifts in flow make significant differences. In meandering rivers, the bends can grow so pronounced they form long, winding loops—or even cut themselves off entirely, creating a straighter path for the river and an oxbow lake in the process.

Imagine that—all this dramatic change in the landscape caused by subtle shifts in flow and terrain. I have to laugh at myself here. As someone who’s always ready to dive into the big and bold move, it’s a good reminder of the quiet power of meandering: transformation doesn’t always arrive with fanfare. Sometimes just a little space, curiosity, and trust are all that’s needed. Along with a winding river or road—perhaps especially with a winding road (the Blue Car asked me to add this).

When I step back from my Sunday worries, I know my weekly doubts are silly and unfounded. I have 60 files of essay ideas on my laptop, a list scrawled on the back page of my sketchbook, and more voice notes than I care to admit—all tangible benefits of my meandering. And yet, I still have that little nagging fear of the unfilled space—the essay yet to be written.

But I’ve come to see that despite those lingering fears, uncertainty isn’t a void to be filled—it’s an opportunity. The river doesn’t worry about running dry; it simply keeps curving toward what’s next. That seems a good thing to remember each and every day.