Rest Without Guilt

You deserve to rest. You don't have to earn it (But you might have to steal it)

Let’s take a moment, and rest together.

I want to share a memory of rest with you.

A playground in Northern California, 2003

It’s a sunny day, but not hot. In the distance, the sounds of children playing on the playground.

You’re sitting on the ground, hardpacked but sandy. You’re tucked between some boulders, large enough to hide you from view, your own private sanctuary.

You’re safe here.

You lean back onto the solid ground, your spine settling into the security of the earth.

The sky is blue, a few wisps of white clouds making their way above you, unhurried.

A gentle breeze brushes over your cheeks.

You are here, in this moment, the rest of the world distant-but-nearby.

You breathe in. You breathe out.

On the other side of the boulders, tall grasses grow in bushes, rustling in the wind.

The world breathes in. The world breathes out.

You trace the rough edges of the boulders with your fingers.

This is what you were made for.

A beach in Nice, France, 2008

Another sunny day, this one much warmer than the first.

You’re sitting on a beach, in the south of France. It’s not sandy, it’s not even pebbly, but rather covered in smooth stones as big as your hand.

You lean back, the dark stones warming your body through your beach towel.

One arm resting at your side, you place five smooth stones along the expanse of your forearm.

One, two, three, four, five.

You let the weight of the stones hold you down, grounding you.

You breathe in. You breathe out.

All around you, the sounds of beachgoers, playing, chatting, swimming, laughing.

Distant, but near. Near, but distant.

One, two, three, four, five.

Tofo Beach, Mozambique, 2011

Another sunny day, the kind that comes right after a storm, when everything is still wet, ready to be warmed.

This one is quieter. Just ocean waves, rustling palms, occasional birds.

Your books got wet in the storm last night, so you open them up on the sand, arranging their damp pages upright to dry out in the sun.

You walk slowly up and down, up and down, up and down the beach.

The waves come in, the waves go out.

You traces words into the sand, slowly, unhurried.

There is nowhere to be.

There is noone to answer to.

There is only this moment, and the next, and the next.

There is only the sand beneath your feet.

There is only the air.

There is only breath.

You were made for this.

Reflection

All of these moments of rest were stolen moments, when I was “supposed” to be doing something else.

In 2003, I was supposed to be playing with the other kids during recess.

In 2008, I was supposed to be having pizza in Italy.

In 2011, I was supposed to be on an ocean safari.

Decades before I consciously recognized my need for deep rest and intentional solitude, I advocated for myself, opting out of planned activities and choosing to just be.

Now, I’ve learned to steal these moments as often as possible. To pause when the sun warms my face, and feel it. To set my phone down when scrolling and breathe, if only for a moment.

I’ve learned how much of a difference it makes, having these moments as often as possible, instead of only when my body demands them.

My hope for you, dear readers, is that you will steal a moment of rest today.

And then you’ll do it again tomorrow.

Day after day, you’ll reject the pressure to fill every moment with productivity and shoulds.

Day after day, you’ll choose to find one small moment to just be, breathe, feel, exist.

Look at the sky.

Feel the air.

Breathe.

This is what you were made for.