Of What it Takes to Rest

Someone once told me, "There is nothing better for the traumas of the brain, than to sit by moving water,". All the flashes of glimmering waters supposably do charitable work for the mind. Along with my friend, myself, and other colleagues were a part of a unique working-class: employed full-time, but not paid enough for our careers. So we each pursued hobbies that made money. We were the one-hundred-hour-a-week crew in town.

My fulltime job: a privately employed teacher; and my side hustles have been vast (from working as a barista in a five star cafe, to landscaping, to mechanical repair, and much more). My friend - the one who enjoyed sitting by rivers - was (and is at the time of writing) a good and humble member of law enforcement. He had a hobby of working in my profession: teaching teenage children.

It was a very rewarding job, but also very sad at times. You see: teens sometimes leave the world before their time to contribute great things to the world has even begun, and sometimes they decide to do so with such resolve, that they cannot be talked out of it. Deaths of those who died before they were able to give many gifts to the world, caused us both much trauma over the span of ten years.

About five years into my profession, my friend sat beside me on a field trip to San Francisco. He told me about sitting by the rivers, and how the movement from the water helped his brain to process the losses, the memories of informing family members who had lost beloved children, and other things. We took our students through the city, and upon leaving, I could not wait to put myself in front of a slow-moving river when I was to come home.

Upon arriving at my house, I was confronted by unexpected bills (the type you get from those who use others). Calls were made for side-jobs, and many rivers flowed through my area, without my eyes being laid upon a single glimmer. About two months later, the bills had been handled, and I was exhausted on a hot summer day.

I finished my landscaping, went to a friends garage to help him with a project, and by the time it was midnight, I would only get four hours of sleep until starting my job at the cafe. The next morning, a Saturday, I woke up with bags under my eyes, and I forced them away with ice cubes. I went to work, and helped many who came to my counter on their restful day. I was not mad, but I resolved to take a page from their book.

That June day, I was off work by three in the afternoon. As soon as I locked up shop, I put myself in my truck and drove straight for the hills. It had been long-delayed... As I crested ridges, and drove through small valleys on mountain dirt roads (trying to find the perfect river), I began to feel alive.

I had driven for about an hour, and felt hunger. I had not eaten that day, because the shop had been busy; and I had not stopped for food, because I was too excited to journey. I put the hunger out of my mind, with will, and then remembered a student who I once took in. I fed the boy, and stirred his dreams. Before becoming a good and humble marine, he died - the passenger in a tragic car accident.

I remembered his face, and I began to feel sorrow. He had passed years before, along with others who had gone away for the long nap as well. I had not slowed down in such a long time, and all of it hit me very hard. Suddenly, I saw a glimmer somewhere off to the west, where the sun was setting.

Having not the patience to find a road that connected to the glittering water, I pulled my truck off. The mountain air was cold on my skin. I grabbed an oily carhartt jacket from the back, and I walked in silence toward the sound of babbling. I walked through thin pines, strands of grass, and found myself in a clearing, where the sun shined gold on a brook. It smelled like meneur - I was in cattle lands, but not bothered by it.

Finally, my moment had come. I looked intently at the glimmering water, and as I did, my mind raced through tragedies I had been a part of. I did not speak, and did not move, other than to lie down when the stars came out. It was silent for a long while, until the peaceful creeping things of night started their evenings. None of them bothered me.

My friend had been right. There was something wonderful about moving water on the eyes - even only a babbling brook. I sat by that little thing, and walked up and down the brook until nearly four in the morning. I had nowhere to be the next day, so I made myself a pillow of pine-needles, and slept tucked under a tree; close to the little water-way.

In the morning, I awoke to the mooing of a cow that had been drinking from the water. I was thirsty, but did not dare chance it. Back in the truck, I had water. I made my way there, back down the mountain, and felt very light. I would like to tell you I learned my lesson from that night, but none of us who are human tend to learn lessons so quickly.

For five more years, I struggled to find time for rest. Only recently have I discovered that "finding time is a misnomer" (A quote from another friend of mine). Time, for all things we do, must be made. It must be made for rest, above all, lest the things we do become dredging tasks. After all, many of us do things we quite enjoy, or at least enjoyed earning the skills necessary to do them. So these days, I do not work more than fifty hours in a week.

Written, and in bold on my schedule, I have non-negotiable times of rest. They are times where the earth goes on spinning without me, while I find healing and something much better than that: inspiration, along the waterways and forests. The two things often go hand in hand, but are very different.

The contrast: healing only restores that which once was. Inspiration brings that which is not yet. Often, rest brings only the former, but it ought to bring the latter. The discipline of resting unto greatness is not natural, but will never be done regretfully by anyone who tries.