Last week, a friend told me something interesting about my rest posts.
“It sounds like you’re justifying yourself. Like you’re trying to convince yourself.”
“You’re absolutely right,” I told him. I have been posting about rest on this blog since I started it and have accumulated over thirty posts on the subject. Each one is less of letter to you about why you should rest, and more of a letter to me.
I struggle resting so much that each week I need to talk myself into it.
Today, I flew from Chicago to Paris to Malaga. I caught a train and then a bus and am now sitting in a café in Mijas, Spain, here to begin a ghostwriting project. It’s Sunday, the day I usually rest, but the dictates of travel have forced me to abandon it.
And this is exactly why every week I remind myself to rest. Because this week it’s travel and next week it’s an urgent deadline and the week after it’s a meeting and the next is a batch of emails.
How easy it would be to abandon this whole rest practice I’ve created. Easier in fact than putting my life on hold to stop and take a break.
The reason, though, I rest is so that when I get to Spain and sit in a café drinking café con leche I remember what it is to sit here and enjoy it, to take in the foreignness of the pace, breathe it in like a blessing. I rest so that when I see something remarkable, I actually see it. And of course, what kind of writer would I be if I didn’t see.
So here goes:
Remember, there is much to do: emails to check, writing projects to finish, but you are in Spain. Take it in, please.