I still remember my friends giving me the advice: Get a hobby. I was stressed and, of course, also on my phone too much. I was writing about food for work, so cooking didn't really count as a hobby anymore, nor did reading, nor socializing, especially since all of my friends worked in my industry. I needed something in my life that existed apart from all that.

Cooking had once been the thing I did to relax when I got home from work, the thing I was curious about. The kitchen had once been a release, but now it was part of my professional life. It needed a replacement. A few months later, I dutifully signed up for a ceramics(制陶艺术) class at a studio near my apartment.

Powerlessness, for an amateur, can be its own draw. At the studio, I started as a lazy learner, but after a few months I became crazy, signing up for more classes when my session ended. I had something to be curious about, and my goals were unrelated to outer forces: a boss, a job, a market, a reader. Unlike with writing, my progress was quantifiable: Now I can make a vase this tall. Now my handles are beautiful. Now I have made two things that more or less look like a pair.

Finally finding a hobby that was just for my own enjoyment was enjoyable. I enjoyed having something to do that didn't involve a screen and therefore felt far from the style of work to which I was most accustomed —hands covered in clay cannot swipe(滑屏) very well.

Making time for this also means carving out time, for creation and inspiration, and also for the rest that is required for me to reflect on my life. This is something I desire more than a new hobby. This is peace.