rest as a practice
There are a thousand different ways to rest that don’t require flight schedules, massage days, or money, and I’m beginning to believe this is actually true.
Dearly Beloveds,
Both my therapist and my spiritual director say I need to rest. They are not wrong. There’s a weariness deep in my bones that cannot be quelled by a “day off,” whatever that is.
I keep searching for a remedy as if there’s a quick fix to restoration. As if it didn’t take the Israelites 74 days to build the Tabernacle in the wilderness and another 40 years to make it to the Promised Land. As if, then, once there, it didn’t take them time to settle and heal, regulate and learn to breathe deeply and fully again. As if it didn’t take years for them to build and restore their homeland.
As if any journey that requires our fullest attention and our deepest love is something a good night’s rest will settle.
Perhaps rest is not so much a quick fix or a remedy prescribed but, instead, a practice. A daily prayer. An hourly meditation. Learning to rest in the midst. The ability to stop ourselves in the middle of a meltdown and breathe.
In a capitalistic culture in which more is better and production is King, rest can often feel like the impossible dream. In the midst of health crises, when round the clock care is required, rest can often feel like a joke. In the midst of caring for a newborn who does not know night from day, day from night, rest can often evade even our most valiant attempts. In the long season of midlife when raising young children and caring for aging parents presses on every side, rest can remain a mystery.
If I see another Instagram post telling me to rest, I might scream. As if it’s easy. As if I can just turn it all off. As if the world can stop long enough for any of us to return to restful states of being.
Nicola Jane Hobbs, a contemporary poet, writes, “Growing up, I never knew a relaxed woman.” She goes on to say she knew successful women, anxious and afraid women, productive women, but never women who gave “themselves unconditional permission to relax.”
When I first read this piece, it pissed me off. Still, I saved it, and I return to it often. Because I’d like to be a relaxed woman. I’d like to render success as something soaked in sunshine and water instead of awards, likes, and public recognition. I’d like to be like the woman in Proverbs 31 who laughs at the days to come, not because she doesn’t want them or because she doesn’t take them seriously, but because she’s overcome with joy that she’s here, alive and actually living them.
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“It’s so hot,” we all collectively bemoan.
Sitting under the fan in our living room, the four of us stare at one another, hoping someone has an answer.
Secretly, I long for a pool in our backyard, and I feel sad that we don’t have the money for one right now. Then, I think of what my therapist said when I lamented our lack of a backyard pool in a recent therapy session.
“Go to Walmart and get one,” she said.
Wiping the sweat from my brow, I stand and declare, “It’s water play day!”
The kids squeal. Adam and I lock eyes and smile.
Turns out, all it takes is a water hose and a cheap plastic water slide to renew our spirits and get us outside and moving. Turns out, the dream of a backyard pool, while not a bad one, doesn’t have to prohibit laughing and living and playing and resting now.
Because though we were all home together–our almost 9-year-old and almost 5-year-old with their Mom and Dad–and as all parents know, parenting is not something you can turn off and on, it’s a constant, ongoing, forever full time, round the clock job, I (and dare I say we) were able to rest for a few minutes with cold water, green grass, hot sun, and laughter. I even enjoyed a cold beer while sitting on our porch swing, watching the play unfold.
Wars rage. Violence ensues. Racism continues. Misogyny and absurdity persist. As do our loved one’s needs, and our own. The systems of capitalism and patriarchy keep us stitched up and spinning, grasping for some unattainable life that will never quench our thirst or provide rest for our weary souls.
None of it stops, and it likely never will. But we can, and we must.
Throw the phone across the room. Sit down, take a deep breath. Drink some water. Color. Spray yourself with the water hose.
There are a thousand different ways to rest that don’t require flight schedules, massage days, or money, and I’m beginning to believe this is actually true.
Rest as a practice, a conscious choice to tune in to what’s right in front of us - and what’s within us. Which is, when you get down to the heart of it, deep, abiding, forever and ever love.
Here’s to more moments of rest that lead us to love that lead us to rest that lead us to love. Again and again. Amen.
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Happy PRIDE month from all the women who’ve been leading in love forever. Mother Mary at the helm, she reminds us that all children are beloved, all people are worthy, and all identities are valid and matter. Blessed Are the Women is a celebration of women and our love for ourselves, one another, and everyone. Happy PRIDE!
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Blessed Are the Women is what they call an evergreen book. She’s a faithful companion in all seasons—for personal and communal spiritual practice, sermon and worship prep, contemporary connection, feminist midrash, reclaiming women’s stories, and more. As we head into “ordinary time” in the Christian calendar year, as spring comes to and end and summer begins, let Blessed Are the Women accompany you and yours in the day to day grace and grind of it all. She and the women are here.
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