Sydney and the Sabbath

At one point this year I talked to Jacob about something and found out he didn't work on a Sunday, devoting it to God as the Sabbath - the day of rest. Intrigued and inspired (and maybe slightly competitive) I decided to see what it would be like, to give a whole day to God and not getting ahead with my own life. And so it was that Sundays begun being devoted to rest. It's funny, I remember reading about a dull way of spending a Sabbath resting in Laura Ingalls Wilder's series

They must walk slowly and solemnly, looking straight ahead.  They must not joke or laugh, or even smile.  Grandpa and his two brothers walked ahead, and their father and mother walked behind them.

In church, Grandpa and his brothers must sit perfectly still for two long hours and listen to the sermon.  They dared not fidget on the hard bench.  They dared not swing their feet.  They dared not turn their heads to look at the windows or the walls or the ceiling of the church.  They must sit perfectly motionless, and never for one instant take their eyes from the preacher.

When church was over, they walked slowly home.  They might talk on the way, but they must not talk loudly and they must never laugh or smile.  At home they ate a cold dinner which had been cooked the day before.  Then all the long afternoon they must sit in a row on a bench and study their catechism, until at least the sun went down and Sunday was over. (Laura Ingalls Wilder, Little House in the Big Woods)

But rest is not literal stasis. Rest can be a joyful cartwheel on a winter's morning walk at the white snowy world God has created. Rest can be making a hot bowl of porridge, or a cold bowl of nice cream and granola and eating it with thanks for nourishment and the day and a person you love to share breakfast with. Rest can be laughing till tears come to your eyes at the tipsy antics of choir post evensong.

Even before learning about Jacob's Sabbath, I'd begun thinking about rest. In summer 2017 I went to Sydney to see my dear friend Ellis, and in Sydney she taught me the Australian art of chilling. There were no formal lessons - that, I think, would be antithetical to the spirit of chill in the first place, but she showed me, by contrast and direct calling out, how prone to activity I am. Not simply activity for joy and fulfilment but activity just to fill - an escape from not having anything to do, to be, to distract myself with. Often I had spans of time in Sydney with nothing particularly pressing to do, and instead of trying to find yet another thing, I'd find myself. I remember clearly lying under a bridge, listening to the metallic echo and roar as cars went over head, focusing my entire mind on the single simple thought of gratefulness for shade from the head. On another occasion I walked from Manly to Spit, and felt thankful for silence. At one point the trees became dappled and I stopped and took a photo of myself hiding in the leaves so I could see how much I could camouflage myself. (It is not a photo to put on the world wide interweb, not just because it isn't particularly good but because it wasn't taken for exposure but for exploration.)

I've realised that when you rest your mind has more space to find pathways of its own. It's the sort of contemplative suspension you allow yourself to have in an art gallery, lavishing time over individual paintings, gazing, wondering - and finally creating a certain idea or conclusion. In the Gallery of New South Wales, I stopped in front of this painting for a long time. Because it is abstract, I couldn't accept it as something and then move on in the way one can with realist paintings if in a hurry. No, this is beautiful - but why? Why is it called Joie de Vivre, and what is the joy of life? Is it flowers, a sunset, or the tulle swirl of a dancer's skirt? Perhaps it is just colour, or maybe emotion expressed as colour - exhilaration, love, happiness, the feeling of a kiss - 

Where does joy come from? Why do I deserve joy? What sort of joy is lasting?

'Joie de Vivre' (1958, Mary Webb)

It makes sense that galleries have their roots in churches, then, because of the contemplative mind that both encourage and thrive off. But why do we contain this restful mindset to 'hallowed' walls? This Sabbath attitude of thinking deeply and unhurriedly (in other words, restful but meaningful thought) and taking joy in the process and the conclusion (which is, to me at least, more often than not God) is transformative. If we took it outside the physical walls of a gallery or church and outside the ideological walls of art and religiosity, then it would transform the ordinary and make every breath on Sunday a Sabbath rest.