We strung the hammock between two trees at a hot, no-frills site in California next to a creek in the Sierras. No amenities, no shade but what the trees gave us. I climbed into the hammock with my book and Koa tucked against my feet; Mike headed off to fish.
Every so often I’d wet a towel and drape it over the two of us against the heat and flies. Otherwise there was nothing to do but read, listen to the creek, and rest–and for someone who has a hard time doing that, the situation was perfect–and a version of rest that photographs well.
But not every rest moment from our travels on the road looked like that.
On a similar sunny outdoor day, this one while hiking on the Big Island of Hawaii, I followed an impulse and climbed a koa tree. For a while I was entranced, seated up in the crown of leaves, listening to the native birds, studying the shape of sky holes…but then I realized I couldn’t get back down without dropping more than six feet to the ground.
A hip injury and ankles worn out from years of running told me that jumping down was a dangerous option, especially since we had to hike back out. Mike had wandered off with his camera and no phone signal between us. He didn’t hear me calling, so I wriggled around in the crotch of a rough branch, undignified, hoping he’d come back this way.
“I guess I’m too old for this,” I said out loud. Admitting it physically hurt.
And then, uncomfortable and chilled as clouds rolled in, I surrendered to being stuck. I relaxed. I draped myself over the branch, embracing it’s silvery, poky bark. I studied the ants marching by, and listened to the sweet high calls of the native birds. Nature was a balm regardless of my circumstances.
I thought about my therapy clients, and the suffering they carried. How simple a fix: if only everyone could be alone in the forest for a while, surely they’d be healed.
Rest found me in that tree even though nothing about the moment was comfortable. (This story was echoed during my cancer treatment; I was able to find rest when I surrendered to the situation and the discomfort of my body.)
Eventually Mike returned, gave me a hand down, and said “that’s my girl,” and I heard the affection in it, the acceptance and love—and the teasing.
On our trip to the Grand Canyon, we’d driven and hiked all day. The crowds and the sheer scale of the place had left me not exhilarated but oversaturated; I’d had too much grandeur to process. Mike was the opposite: energized, roaring around at top speed, delighted, finding us a room near the rim, preparing to go shoot the sunset over the Canyon’s edge.
“I need a rest,” I told him. I went into our cool dim room alone, and lay down with a cool cloth over my overstimulated eyes. Much as I was suffering from FOMO, I told myself I’d watch the sunset another time. I’d visit the rest of the Canyon tomorrow, when I was ready for new adventures again. For now, I needed rest.
That sentence: “I need a rest” is complete. It doesn’t require an explanation or an apology to a partner, family member or friend who doesn’t feel the same depletion you do.
A few ways to hold onto this:
* Let your rest be inconvenient sometimes. It doesn’t have to arrive on schedule or as a reward for good behavior.
* Practice the sentence “I need a rest.” (hint: It goes well with “no.”) It’s a complete thought. Say it before you’re forced to.
* Notice when nature (or something else) restores you anyway. Discomfort and restoration can occupy the same ten minutes; you don’t have to choose one before the other’s allowed in.
* Let someone else’s rest look different from yours, without commentary. Mike wanted the sunset. I wanted a cool, dim room. We were both right, and neither of us had to change the other’s mind; that’s a small gift you can hand the person you love.
I love that hammock by the creek, and it’s still my ideal way to spend a restorative afternoon: the book, the dog at my feet, the sound of water. But I just as often take 20 minutes to rest, all the time I need for restoration, in a cool dim room.
Resting is a safeguard against burnout and physical problems that come on when we can’t/won’t slow down.
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