life balance – With All Due Respect

As the year winds down for those doing One Word practice, many of us have turned our attention to discovering or choosing a new word for 2021. Because Carolyn, whose blog has guided my practice this year, has been hosting a lively and inspiring conversation about selecting new words, it’s been tempting to let rest fade away quietly in December. But I am a dutiful sort, and I know I owe rest a debt of gratitude and a summation of its impact on my life this past year.

It’s taken me nearly six years of retirement to settle into a slower, more mindful, less frantic pace of life. Old habits die hard—the tendency to say yes and get involved before really thinking, in particular. But 2021 has offered me more open space and more free time, and the word rest has lent focus for settling into a new mode of living.

These days, in both winter and summer, I routinely wake up at around four a.m. and, unable to go back to sleep, get up and begin my day while it is still dark and silent. I’ve watched and photographed many glorious dawns, sat completely still in my cozy den with my dog beside me and a cat on my lap, just breathing and listening to the silence. So, each day begins gently and quietly.

There is always at least one long, slow-paced walk early in the day, amid the beauty of green summer foliage or among stark bare winter branches. I delight in the dog’s excited sniffing, in watching the trees sway, or searching for wildflowers. I try to get outside my head on these walks and observe what is happening around me. Just watch and listen.

After that, work—connecting, communicating, planning, writing, gardening, cleaning, errands, appointments. Following the teaching of the Buddhist monk, Thich Nhat Hanh, I try to do each task mindfully. Of course, it’s going to take many more years of practice to be as aware and attentive as I aspire to be, but I’ve noticed tiny incremental improvements over the last six years, and that gives me hope.

For instance, I now sit down to eat meals most days, departing from my previous practice of grabbing bites between tasks or standing at the kitchen counter and spooning food into my mouth, often coughing after swallowing each mouthful. In summer, I may eat breakfast and lunch in the garden; a pair of clippers and a watering can close at hand so that I can roam from bush to flower, watering, and pruning as needed. When I first sit down at dinner time, I pause and become fully present in the room, at the table, to the person(s) across from me and the food before me. I give thanks and smell the delicious odors. I try to put my fork down after each bite and concentrate on chewing and swallowing. I still eat more quickly than anyone else at the table, but slightly more slowly than I used to do.

Swimming has gotten slower, and I spend more time luxuriating in the hot tub and the sauna after my swim. I often take short naps, sometimes only 20 minutes, but they are deliciously relaxing and bring balance. Though I’ve not read nearly as many books as I would like, I’ve read more than in past years.

These settling changes have come about gradually and naturally, but my mental and spiritual exploration of the word rest has influenced and provided new motivation for them. Using resources provided by Carolyn, monthly check-ins have enabled me to probe the meaning of rest for myself and the world around me. Definitions, synonyms, word associations, visual images, sounds, and watching others have opened new doorways to understanding.

For instance, I spent significant time contemplating balance, juxtaposing effort and rest using this image. I would not know what rest is without exerting effort, and vice versa.

The Roots and Fruits image of a tree with many branches helped me hold all my discoveries about rest together, organically and systemically.

The Foundation and Building Blocks diagram teased out basic concepts intrinsic to my experience of rest.

Living with rest for the last year, reflecting on its meaning, has been not so much an attempt to change as an experience of noticing—observing the gradual transformation happening within me. With intention and practice, with patience, acceptance of failure, and beginning again, I’ve come to a more restful way of being. Watching the process brings joy. Discerning progress, however small, gives hope.

I still have a long way to go. My habits are tenacious. But I am not leaving rest behind. Indeed, I’ve chosen next year’s word(s) to take me further along the path to accepting, letting go, and resting.

Links to my previous posts on rest in 2021.

One Word – With All Due Respect

REST – My One Word – Mid-Year Check-In – With All Due Respect

You know “survivor guilt?” Dictonary.com defines it as “a condition of persistent mental and emotional stress experienced by someone who has survived an incident in which others died.” We often think of survivor’s guilt in relation to the Holocaust, or perhaps, 9/11. It’s likely, I think, that some may experience survivor guilt when the COVID-19 pandemic has run its course. Those who have lost relatives, close friends, or colleagues may be left wondering why they were spared, especially if they were also exposed to the coronavirus.

What is “joy guilt?” My definition: “feeling guilty about being joyful when so many others are experiencing fear, deprivation, stress, loss, suffering or danger.”

I am feeling “joy guilt” at the moment. Or should I say, I am wondering if I should be feeling guilty about experiencing so much joy during this pandemic? I am joyful, while many others are stressed, sick, or even dying. Should I not be somber, sad, afraid? Should I not at least feel isolated and lonely as I keep my physical distance from those I love and the community in which I dwell?

And yet, I am experiencing irrepressible happiness, joy, and thankfulness. (Except in those few moments each day when I hear the news on Maine Public while driving or TV in the early evening.) Why am I so joyful? The pandemic has completely changed my daily life. Instead of rushing from one appointment or commitment to another, always thinking about what is coming up next and whether I will be ready for it, I now have a nearly empty calendar. Huge blocks of time have opened up during my days, and I have the freedom to choose how to use them.

Of course, I still have a “to-do” list. But now, instead of watching it get longer and longer, I see it grow shorter. Now, I am open to spontaneous suggestions or requests, as the invitation from a friend to walk our dogs together on the trails that surround our retirement community. (Keeping a six-foot distance from each other, of course.)

I realize that I am blessed beyond many. I have the resources to live in a wonderful independent living community where the very competent staff have put into place appropriate measures to protect us from coronavirus infection. I am not at risk of losing my business, my income, or my home. I am tech-savvy enough to be able to order online and have groceries, pet food, and pretty much anything else I might need or want, delivered. So, I am starting from a baseline of security that many others do not share. I am also well and healthy, with no medical conditions that put me at risk of death from the COVID-19. I am very, very fortunate.

I also realize that I am not invulnerable. My good fortune could come crashing down around my ears suddenly if a family member contracts and dies from COVID-19 or loses his or her job; or if I become sick with the virus and don’t bounce back to health quickly, or at all. My joy may evaporate at a moment’s notice. So, during the quiet early hours each day, I hold those suffering in the pandemic in my thoughts, trying to fathom their pain and fear, their insecurity and loss. I feel awe and gratefulness for the healthcare workers who are risking their lives to fight this disease. I am thankful for the US Coronavirus Aid, Relief, and Economic Security Act (CARES) Act. Though, I don’t understand whether it will provide the necessary relief that Americans or their economy will require.

Despite ubiquitous vulnerability, I feel joy. On top of my current baseline of relative financial security and health, I now have free time! Time to write, read, to pursue my mandala coloring and photographic hobbies, to meditate, to connect with others by phone or email, to enjoy the outdoors on sunny days, and work slowly in the garden preparing it for spring. Because I am not anticipating some future commitment, I can be more present in the moment, more aware of myself, others, and the world around me. I can go more slowly through the day; stare into space if I wish, chew and savor my meals, let the dog sniff one bush for as long as he chooses, without saying, “Let’s go, boy.”

I feel light-hearted and relaxed. I am less frustrated by interruptions because my most prized possession – time – suddenly seems, at least at present, unlimited. What I can’t finish today, I can happily leave for tomorrow, because tomorrow’s calendar is empty. I have empty days to fill with whatever my heart desires. Joy, delight, happiness are the by-products of my new-found freedom. Dare I say that I don’t want things to go back to “normal” – to the way they were before COVID-19 entered our world.

Perhaps the experts can predict what the world will be like socially, psychologically, economically, medically, and environmentally after this disease has run its horrific course. I can’t imagine that future. I sense things will never be quite the same, but I can’t yet envision the changes to my small hometown world in southern Maine.

I hope that I will not be the same. I pray I will not let too many commitments creep back onto my calendar. I hope the balance of my life will still tilt toward more free time – more time to indulge my dreams and to experience my connectedness to the earth and my fellow earthlings. May I still have time to contemplate the beauty around me, to listen deeply when someone speaks, to be still and silent, to respond to the promptings of my intuition and the desires and compassion of my heart.

Truth be told, I have squandered two other opportunities to create balance in my life: my retirement four years ago and our move to Maine about a year later. In each instance, I had the chance to start fresh, to create the simple, present, and compassionate life of my dreams. But each time, my habit of overextending myself thwarted my hopes. Each time, I re-packed my calendar with more appointments than I could comfortably manage and got involved in more activities and responsibilities than were good for my health or my spirit.

The third time’s a charm, as they say.

What wake-up call(s) do you hear amid the suffering of the pandemic? Do you want to be different on the other side of this disaster? If so, how? Dare I imagine that if each of us asks these questions of ourselves, discovers their answers, and has the courage and tenacity to implement them, our world, or at least our small corner of it, might be quite different, post COVID-19.