Sleep. Prayer. Exercise. Reading a good book; working on a craft project, a hobby, a labor of love.
I don’t rest. I don’t feel like I do enough in a week to “deserve” it, and so instead I shoehorn in an episode of something here, twenty guilty minutes of reading there. Guilty time, when I could be doing something else–should be doing something else. It’s not terribly restful; if anything, it’s time when I “give myself a break” by doing something I don’t have to think about much, and end up feeling even more tired and frazzled than when I started. Maybe it’s the guilt; maybe it’s the looming threat of unproductivity; maybe it’s that not thinking isn’t really that restful. Maybe it’s because getting sick of working and so casting about for anything to fill the time with that isn’t “productive” isn’t really that restful.
One of the books I read mostly in guilty spurts was Barbara Brown Taylor’s Leaving Church–except, of course, once I got to the second half of the book it was impossible to feel guilty about reading it. It got beautiful and emotional and true. I read huge chunks of it and it was restful. In it, she narrates her journey from working as a pastor to working as a professor, and all these things she realized about church and herself once she wasn’t working at a church anymore. I was struck by many of the things she wrote, but most immediately by her chapter on Sabbath. She writes of the struggles and joys of setting aside a day where there’s no housework, no work, just worship and the things that you enjoy doing–the things that refresh you.
I used to do that. I was really good at it in college–I would take walks, and read books that needed attention like Shakespeare and a history of biological thought and epic poems. I would reflect on my week, and avoid homework, and spend time with friends. It was wonderful, too–I admit, I’m not sure why I stopped, can’t quite remember. But I did. I haven’t kept a good, intentional Sabbath in–far too long. (I’m not not being cagey or intentionally obscuring an embarrassing number; I really can’t remember the last time I had a true Sabbath)
And I’m tired. I need to start again.
I have, actually: last week I took a Sabbath, and it was difficult and joyful just like Taylor described it. I rode the full ride, from ‘This is so wonderful and restful!’ to ‘I want to do something productive!!!’ I’m excited to continue that this week, and next week, and on and on. I’m excited to remember that everything does not rest on my shoulders, that leaving some dishes another day will not end the world, that deserving and productivity and everything else that I put in quotation marks above doesn’t mean the constricted, guilt-laden things I put on them. They’re not the be-all, end-all of my life. I can let them go for a day, and when I pick them up again later they’re not quite so heavy and bent out of shape.