on rest

Rest: it’s sacred time. Counter-cultural too. It comes easier on some days than others.

This year, on the anniversary of my daughter’s death, I took the day off as I always do. It is, for me, time to slow down and to have no agenda or plan other than to give myself space. And so that’s what I did. And in this container, in this space of a day without any other obligations than to myself, I listened to what I needed, and did that. This looks a little bit different each year. The gift on this day, I think, is in the attention. It’s in the freedom of time unburdened by expectation.

This year, my son was home sick, and what initially felt like an intrusion on the day became another gift. We sat together on our back porch, one of my favorite places in the house because it overlooks the garden. After getting him settled, I trudged out in the garden to dig out sod for a new bed. He would call from the porch if he needed anything. And I’d wade back through the grass, long before a first spring cutting, sweaty and covered with dirt on my face and in my boots. I’d dip into the kitchen, wash my hands and get him some more noodles, another popsicle.  And then go back out again.

He could reach me.  And I had the space I needed, too. It was this beautiful ebb and flow. And in his voice, drifting through the yard, in his needs, which otherwise interrupted the flow of my work in the garden, my daughter was present, too. She was here in his rooted presence on the back porch and in the beauty of the day: in the sunshine in the morning, and the rain that evening, another ebb and flow.

And in this space, I found it was a day that could hold both joy – delight in my living children, in the warmth of the sun and the green of the garden and all that dirt beneath my nails – and sadness, that persistent heartache that knocked a little louder on this day. It was a both/ and day. This within the container of rest, which is, I think another word for quiet. Our bodies do not always keep up with the pace of our minds, drawn outward by the demands of work and home and expectation. In the commitment to rest, I committed to slowing down, which was truly, a promise to listen. And in return, I found peace. 

And. Where did I begin? That rest is sacred time, and counter-cultural time. The pivot back to work the next day was hard. Maybe just as hard as the day before because of all the demands on my time. And all of the expectations. And because I had to be attentive to these other things while I moved a little more slowly, wading through renewed grief. I’ve been thinking about this idea lately of moving more slowly, motivated by Cal Newport’s concept of “slow productivity,” which he defines as doing less, obsessing over quality, and working at a “natural pace.” This, alongside the framework of boundaries, what Dr. Pooja Lakshmin defines as the pause, and then the response, a yes, no or renegotiation, but the space in the pause is first, enlivens this idea of space, of rest. And rest, I believe, is as crucial on a day as important as my daughter’s anniversary as it is any other Tuesday.