The paradox of rest

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The paradox of rest

I have had a week where more than once I left work past 11 Pm. Working 14 hour days is not pleasant.

It feels like someone with a wide mouth is sucking all the marrow out of your life, with a heavy straw. And the life that is left is dry and brittle and has no suppleness.

And having had to deal with fatigue so often has taught me so many lessons, one being, to be intentional about feeding my soul.

Being intentional about the books I am reading, the movies I watch, the people I let into my space, the places I go when I am depleted.


This past Saturday, I was beat. And I wanted to stay home and cry. I had so much work pending to do. I was supposed to go back to a work report for the 100th time and effect additional comments, and I did not have the mind power for it.

Last year, at a time, like this, I would have stayed home, binge watched on a series as I thought only anxious thoughts about the pending report. And the anxious thoughts will come.

There is something about having a problem that is so big that it becomes the only thing you see. And you fail to see any other thing. And then at the end, say at three pm, I would have pulled out my laptop and slothed my way through it, hating every minute of how much life had been sucked from my weekend by that work. And it would probably take twice as long to complete the task, since my brain was not rested yet.

So last Saturday I got out of bed after maybe an hour of ruminating about how hard adulting is. I then dragged myself to shower, fried two eggs and went across town for practice for a concert I am part of.

Practice was hard, so hard, for the the first two hours. I kept wondering how much better I would have felt if I had laid in bed and licked my wounds.

Then at some point I broke even, and then it got fun, and it begun to fill me up. By the time I got to the report, I felt lifted, and it took me only an hour to finally hand it in.

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