Rest

“Rest is not idleness, and to lie sometimes on the grass under trees on a summer's day, listening to the murmur of the water, or watching the clouds float across the sky, is by no means a waste of time.”

― John Lubbock, The Use Of Life

It started with a conversation with Jacob and continued as I spent as much time as possible in bed to heal and later when I went on a walk with Semine and we talked about how, for all that Cambridge has taught us, it has left us ignorant on how to rest (and to have a peaceful mind when resting the body).

One morning I listened to this podcast, which reminded me that when (more often than not) I am left at the end of the day with a confounded to-do list, and a schedule that has been followed for the first hour and then abandoned for the next fifteen it is not a failure. The only failure is of my own frustration and unbelief, me clapping my hands over my ears when God says 'For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways' (Isaiah 55:8-9) and saying 'Oh no, God, you don't understand - I had so much to do. I have so much to do. I need to do it, and fast, and the best way to do it is to stick to the list.' The podcast helpfully reminded me that 'efficiency of speed and directness is not what God is about. His purpose is to sanctify the traveler.' Frustration is, frustratingly, sanctifying. Change is sanctifying. But change and frustration don't need to go together. How much better to let God's changes sanctify me without pulling against his perfect plain, yearning for the imperfect but oh so efficient plan I put together.

Being ill, for instance, was not in my plan. 'My plan', in fact, was written out on Friday in the English Faculty Library, when I was just beginning to feel the aches of fever. I didn't recognise it (didn't want to?) and told myself it was me feeling sorry for myself or it was period hormones or I was just tired. And so I wrote out diligently in my diary 'Saturday - dissertation, meet Semine for lunch, SusSex Pistols, save the evening for Jacob. Sunday - meet Ashira 11.20 @ stag, 16.35 Choir. Monday- dissertation, v.c reading, movie, look over personal statement. Tuesday - prac crit, v.c writing, v.c. seminar reading. Wednesday - v.c writing, interview, seminar.....' 

I did probably about 3 of the things on that list (the interview, the movie and looking over my personal statement) and spent the rest of the time curled up, skyping family, listening to podcasts, watching movies, napping... And things didn't get done and I let them go, like balloons floating into the sky, and I knew that it was alright. After getting better, I wanted to keep that spirit of rest. The fact that a virus doesn't completely evaporate without leaving you a lingeringly weak and tired probably helped. But it meant doing yoga in the morning while listening to John Piper's solid joys, asking for essay extensions, getting 8 hours of sleep most nights, having naps, meeting friends and not looking at the time - just talking until we had nothing more to say and then parting full of each other, spending half my singing lesson talking about ice climbing and fell running and not feeling like it was a 'waste of time'. Nothing, I realise, is a waste of time if it is approached with the love of God and the thought that it is God's time. 

One thing I talked about with Semine when it came to rest was the sad reality that often rest makes us feel guilty, as if we don't deserve it, as if our purpose is human productivity. The strange 'self-forgiveness' we feel we need when we rest is, unsurprisingly, a big part of God's character - it's called grace. Grace to rest, grace to feel 'useless' and yet loved and intentional (intentionally useless?), grace to give anxiety about the future, about work, about time, to the hands that made and hold it all. 

When I was lying in bed, I read a lot of poetry (because poetry is in itself a medicine - poetry-cetamol?) and one poem I loved was The Broken Sandal, by Denise Levertov:

Dreamed the thong of my sandal broke.

Nothing to hold it to my foot.
How shall I walk?
                Barefoot?
The sharp stones, the dirt. I would
hobble.
And–
Where was I going?
Where was I going I can’t
go to now, unless hurting?
Where am I standing, if I’m
to stand still now?

I know where I'm standing, I know who hold me up even when I'm hobbling, and I know he guides my paths - they may be slow, vacillating wanders, with lots of pauses, rather than the straight line trajectories I envisage, but they are a beautiful, sanctifying journey.