How About Taking A Rest?
As a kid, when I was sick and had to say home from school, inevitably the path towards wellness included pajama day and Campbells Tomato Soup in front of the TV as “Price is Right” with Bob Barker showcased the vacation and new car showdowns. Truth be told, such rare mid-day indulgence, shall we say, inflated my coughs and stomach aches from time to time. I loved her particular brand of tender loving care. If my mom had a fault, it was her heart. Sometimes she could be snowed by early morning afflictions, but most of the time when I stayed home from school it was because I just didn’t feel well. This brings me to the ultimate tool my mom had in her healing belt: the nap. There was nothing that couldn’t be cured with a respite in bed.
I remember crawling under the covers feeling her intentional love as the fresh clean sheets enveloped me with her kindhearted touch. I swear, to this day, making a bed with tight “hospital corners” and taught tucks makes me feel like all is well with the world. Neatly turned down sheets and puffed pillows offered an invitation to feel better. Other than a heating pad, my mom’s cure for everything was a “rest” in a tender tended bed.
My mom took a rest every day. I mean, as a kid, no matter what was going on, she used to retreat to her bedroom every mid-afternoon. It was second nature for my siblings and I. For that hour, we were trained to respect her space. And we did. Funny thing is, during her rest time, she didn’t immerse herself under the covers as if to escape life. Rather, she lay on top of her covers on her back, with perhaps a light blanket thrown haphazardly over her legs. She definitely closed her eyes, but I doubt if she actually slept. I wish I could ask her now what that rest time meant to her, but I can only suppose it was my mom’s dedication to her mental health way before mental health awareness became part of a much needed conversation.
Some people use bed as an escape, or a place of avoidance. But for my mom, her bed was vessel for renourishment. It was her place of meditation, a yoga-like practice. I think that’s why she took such care and intention in preparing our sick-day beds with such affection and nurture. One must rest to heal, after all.
My mom had a long life with plenty of heartache, loss, and unmet expectation. Yet, she sought joy and relished in all things good. As I reflect, her ability to exist with a “cup half full” attitude was attributed, in part, to her ability to create space for herself with her feet up in solitude. I mean, she had a life as hectic as anyone’s, yet she made it a priority to make simple time for herself every mid-day. I’ve acquired a delayed appreciation for her discipline not bury her self-care with constant busyness. I’ve come to realize her daily rest contributed to her giving and positive demeanor despite her struggles.
My mom’s been gone for 11 years now, but she left more than a few life lessons that still teach me. It’s much more comfortable to be a caregiver than to prioritize self-care. It’s easier to be swept away by life than to create space for renewal. I can hear her now counsel me that no matter what my daily struggles, a rest was most certainly in order. Call me a slow learner, but I’m finally realizing this is a really good idea.