Let there be rest

“Growing up, I never knew a relaxed woman. Successful women? Yes. Productive women? Plenty. Anxious and afraid and apologetic women? Heaps of them. But relaxed women? At-ease women? Women who don’t dissect their days into half hour slots of productivity? Women who prioritize rest and pleasure and play? Women who aren’t afraid to take up space in the world? Women who give themselves unconditional permission to relax? Without guilt? Without apology? Without feeling like they need to earn it? I’m not sure I’ve ever met a woman like that. But I would like to become one.”

―Nicola Jane Hobbs

I’ve been seeing this quote, or texts inspired by it, circulating the internet for a while. I read these words again the other day, and this time, they really struck a chord. As I find myself in yet another crash cycle, I consider these words through the lens of this burnout experience, which seems to be asking me to let go of everything I thought I was, wanted to be and needed to be in order to be valuable and deserving of life. Now, a lingering question reverberates through my bones. When was the last time I felt relaxed?

For years, this sensitive body o’ mine has begged for rest and simplicity. And in some periods, I’ve half managed to oblige, but only out of necessity, only when my capacity was so low that I hardly had another choice. Even then, I was carried through these hard chapters by the spiralling winds of shame. I was “resting”, but not really. In the background, a voice would nag me, like a little worm haunting my ear canal. I should be doing this. I could be doing that. Get up. This is lazy. I have not earned this rest. There’s nothing relaxing about laying horizontal, even in the most spectacular of places, if your inner Miss Trunchbull is smacking you with a broom all the while.

As I proceed to dig into the marvel and necessity of rest, I sort of feel like a hypocrite. I know that I’m bound to contradict myself. So much of my writing, of my dreams, are about our responsibility to the earth, to community; the necessary call to show up, connect, trail blaze and revolutionize. This image of a relaxed, unhurried, unbothered woman- where does she fit in?

I feel this same contradiction through my entire being. One half wants to be forgotten by the world, live quietly, simply, burn the ambitions over flame, and spend hours gazing at clouds and running my hands through the foliage of garden plants. Peace, deep rest, predictability. The other half has a blazing heart which refuses silence and demands- with a great degree of urgency- that I get up and do something about the mess our culture continues to create. It wants action, participation, innovation, justice. Both needs can be fed, it is possible, but neither so when we’re stuck in a vicious cycle of pushing forward, burning, burning, burning, and then crashing so hard that the rest is not even relaxing. Especially with the voice of mother culture in our ear, perpetuating the story of productivity as worth.

I thought this would be a sweet little piece on rest and relaxation, but somehow, it’s all a bit political these days. All roads lead back to the question of power, and who holds it. And the thing is, a relaxed woman is powerful beyond measure.

~~~~~

A relaxed woman is a force to be reckoned with. She is free, if only temporarily, from the cortisol-flooding, intrusive demands of our society, and in that spaciousness, she is reconnected with present moment truth, her intuitive and instinctual wisdom, and the love of a thousand mothers. She does not apologize for taking her time. She does not hurry. She will not be rushed. She rests when her body needs it. She says no without guilt. Her relaxed nervous system coaxes open her innate receptive quality and she sips on the eros of life.

A relaxed woman returns to gratitude, connection, fertility, and her natural ability to nurture all forms of life. She does this not from a cascade of stress hormones, internalized pressure and forced will, no, she pours from a chalice overflowing with the breathtaking ferocity of waterfalls, the sweetness of ripe grapes dripping from the vine in late summer, and with the might of the mountains behind her. She does this because she is fed and full.

She is capable of such saccharine love, but do not confuse a relaxed woman for a meek, demure, pleasing woman. In the unwinding of her nervous system, she becomes more connected to her feral nature. To all parts of herself. She is like the rose- soft, ethereal, nurturing, but full of thorns and fiercely protective. Her rage is intact, her voice is intact, and she is not afraid to use it to stand up for herself and all of creation.

Yes, sadly, even rest and our right to a regulated nervous system have been denied and our tendency to nurture with ferocious devotion weaponized against us. The power of a relaxed and resourced woman threatens to dismantle empires upon empires; threatens to shake the foundations with a wrath that seeks ultimate equilibrium, and to subvert simply with radical care and support for all who touch their sphere of influence- because care offered freely, from an overflowing, wild heart, cannot be capitalized on.

~~~~~

An Idiot’s Bliss- 2024

So I told everybody I was stupid

And I told myself that, too

Because intelligence seemed burdensome

In our society, intelligent people were expected to produce something of notoriety

Another unnecessary invention, a self-published book that pulls one to the brink of insanity upon its writing,

A non-profit organization, a medical practice that starts with altruism and ends in despair,

An academic paper, or anarchist movement,

A great work of art that some will be moved by and others will look at while scratching their ass, uttering that they could do that in their sleep

(It goes without saying- they could not)

Yes, I told myself I was stupid because it was an easy way out

I could then cease to exist in the eyes of the public

And allow my time on this earth to lazily unspool itself

I could spend hours marvelling at the roots of a plant

Or wondering what a spider would say if it could talk

Did it find flies tasty the way we find french fries tasty?

I could lose myself in the endless walls of a bookstore for two hours, four, maybe seven

Walking out with nothing but overwhelm and excitement (cousin emotions)

The bath water could get cold

And nobody would cry for my attention

Perhaps this was selfish

An existence that is sometimes lonely and shrivels the ego worse than wool tossed to the drier

The ego, I’ve come to realize, likes to feel needed by others

And those who listen to the stars would say “my moon in leo loves to be recognized and adored”

Oh well, I told my little lioness moon

I shall spend this life in idiotic bliss

So I may be free as a river stone or dandelion seed

~~~~~

Somewhere along the line, we were duped into believing that this woman is lazy, unproductive, selfish, unworthy of a seat at the table; that her worth is solely dependant on her output, on how many men, children, businesses and boards she mothers and allows herself to be sucked dry by. I am finally beginning to meet the depth of this trap… to see how even the wonderful, life-sustaining ambitions that are well-meaning can become another way to stay stuck in exhaustion, to bend and gnarl ourselves in order to serve, to please, to prove we are worthy and good and strong.

I do not rescind all that I have said up until now, nor have my visions for a new earth changed. I still want to collaborate, innovate, participate- but not from a place of denying needs and forcing onward. Everything we offer this malleable reality emanates from within, from our state of consciousness, from the program we’re playing. It can be willed from a state of tension and control, or flow from ease and receptivity. If I have a choice, I prefer the latter.

A relaxed woman, a woman with nothing to prove, is a powerful woman because she is no longer feeding on all the elaborate little lies designed to keep her sustaining a patriarchal system which oppresses, extracts and exterminates life, to the shattering betrayal of her soul-truth, and in return offers hardly a breadcrumb of gratitude to the husk that becomes her.

Yes, I am dramatic, but think of it… how many women do you know that have been wrung out like this? And what of our Great Mother, planet earth, the most obvious representation of the feminine’s power to sustain? How have we treated her?

~~~~~

As surrender softens me, my eyesight is shifting- my inner eyesight, that is.

Maybe the best thing I can do, the most radically defying thing I can do, is to just stop. To remember, or meet anew, the authentic expression of myself that exists behind the suffocating internal and external pressures to do, to progress, to offer every ounce of myself up on a platter. This doesn’t mean do nothing, help no one, and hide away forever. Rather, to know that I don’t need to do anything or help anyone in order to be worthy of this breath, this body, this life.

I want to explore what it would feel like to pour from a filled cup, from a place of desire and steadiness rather than obligation, urgency, some hidden desire to prove my worth, or pressure that stems from the threat of collapse, toxic culture, and internalized shame. What if I waited for the invitation rather than pushing myself on people and assuming I know what’s best for anyone but myself.

I understand the luxury and privilege of having this choice to “opt out”, or to rest deeply, away from prying eyes. I can’t step away entirely, not without great personal sacrifice and stressful disruptions. I will keep my job and most important responsibilities, but for the time being, I’m plucking off everything that isn’t a necessity with the haste of picking slugs off precious garden plants.

The thing about this process is that it seems to get worse before it gets better. So many of us have entangled our identity with what we do, produce and are passionate about. Letting it all go, even temporarily, can be uncomfortable, painful, fearfully unknown. What happens when you let all of that go and surrender to nothingness? I think most often, something in us dies, and good riddance, for we are only burning away what is false to see what truth remains.

I’ll finish off with some words from a letter I sent the other day, and then an old poem. I think they say it best…

“I have a hard time answering that question these days... how am I? Who am I? I am deep in a state of ego and identity dissolution; the iron grip I've held on my dreams, my visions, is being pried free. I am drawn to eat and sleep and sleep and eat. I just napped under the dappled light of the apple tree. My mind fought against it, but eventually I surrendered. I look at the bugs, the deer, the flowers, all other-than-human life, and I see no rushing, no pushy ambitions. I want to relish in the beauty of being alive like the spider, the raven, the mullein which reaches for the sky and paints it with spots of yellow polka dot flowers. I want to know what it would be like to live as a rested, regulated, relaxed woman for once. So, I'll give it a shot.”

~~~~~

The Humans- 2022

They watch the humans scramble

And wipe sweat from their brow bone

But for the life of them

They can’t figure out WHAT FOR

The cat never wonders about its purpose

It naps and never feels lazy for it

Demands caressing but never feels needy because of it

And passes time happily hunting for butterflies in the yard

How phenomenal it is for a cat to be a cat

The butterfly never purchases life insurance

To protect itself from the grasp of unexpected claws

That might one day assault the air around it

It flutters easefully from the wild roses to the rich violets

Enjoying every succulent sip of nectar

Soaking in the pleasure that is a butterfly being a butterfly

The flower doesn’t sit waiting with an anxious mind

For the day it may be picked by quick and nimble fingers

It unfurls its petals each morning without fail

And bathes in the sun’s effervescence

It never wonders if the browning edge on one of its petals

Makes it any less desirable than the other flowers

To be a flower being a flower is divine enough

The ant that crawls on the flower’s stalk

Does not spend its day wondering

What should I make for dinner?

Will they like me?

Did I lock the door?

Am I going to make it on time?

It goes on with its business

Working hard but never questioning nor complaining

Always present and absorbed in the task at hand

And deriving great joy from the meditative work

Like all the comrades in the colony do

How rewarding it is to be an ant being an ant

But the poor frantic human

On and on they run

To appointments

And plans

From their mind

And their body

Drowning their spirit with spirits

Trading soul for dollars

Blind to beauty

Too busy to be

And always

ALWAYS

Questioning how

They fit into this dizzying puzzle

And uncertain of their place in this

Perfectly chaotic curiosity

Called life

Humans that don’t know

How to be humans-

How peculiar!

Humans that don’t know

How to BE-

It’s uncanny!

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“May all beings have happiness and the causes of happiness;

May all be free from sorrow and the causes of sorrow;

May all never be separated from the sacred happiness which is sorrowless;

And may all live in equanimity, without too much attachment and too much aversion,

And live believing in the equality of all that lives.”