Turns out, resting is a difficult and perplexing pursuit.
We think we want to rest—I know I need to rest—but what we really want is to feel well rested. Then we can do the things we enjoy. Resting is a means to an end, not an end in itself. Resting is a pause in activities of value that enables us to do the activities of value. We say, oh how beautifully she dances or what a great cook he is, but we never say, oh how expertly she rests. Surely no one is admired for being good at resting.
And how would one be good at resting, anyway? Is there a competitive scale by which one could be judged? Points for duration, for resisting distractions, for resting prone instead of sitting upright, for keeping one’s eyes closed?
Years ago, Utne Reader magazine published an issue titled “In Praise of Idleness.” I was persuaded that idleness is a worthy enterprise. But idleness is not resting. Idleness suggests a relaxed state in which one is free to pursue whatever leisure activity comes to mind: sitting on the banks of a river contemplating the flowing water, lying in a hammock reading a book, sitting at a piano plucking at the keys (but not “practicing”). These scenes suggest a quiet engagement with the world, slow and relaxed, but an engagement nonetheless.
To rest, on the other hand, is to disengage with the world, to step out of the flow of time and human connection. An important and perhaps even life-extending disengagement if undertaken once in a while, perhaps even regularly, like a Sabbath, but believe me, a total bore when it forms your days for months on end.
Resting for me, so far, has meant lying flat on my back in bed staring at ceiling tiles. Or lying on my side noticing for the zillionth time that one of the knobs on my dresser is a shade whiter than the others. Sometimes it means listening to Madeleine Peyroux on Spotify; sometimes it means listening to no sound at all, except for the sounds I can’t stop—one neighbor’s barking terrier, another neighbor’s weed wacker. Sometimes, if I’m lucky, it will mean reading, but not for very long, because my brain tires as quickly as my body. Too much of the time it means scrolling through YouTube for a ticket to any mindplace but here.
In Part I of this post, I stated my intention to rest sufficiently to heal myself of chronic fatigue syndrome. To never crash, not once, to bank loads of energy dollars and never let my account fall into the red.
I am not looking forward to this.
I fear loneliness and boredom. I fear an empty mind and empty hands. I fear losing friends and missing out on the making of memories. I fear the deterioration of basic skills, like carrying on a conversation, navigating a shopping center, embracing a novel experience. I fear becoming old and strange and unknowable.
Could resting possibly be something else than it has been so far?
Another beautiful insight, Julie. Love you my friend.
Not once through this whole experience have I ever found you less of who I’ve always known you to be. Many habits and levels of activity have fluctuated, but never have I felt a distance grow between us or a sense of unfamiliarity emerge. I understand this may not be your experience, but I want you to hear and and trust it is mine. I’d like catching up when the time is right. Between us I can usually count on the generation of a generous round of laughter which would likely do us both some good.