When I only know that my life needs to change, am guided by nothing but the inkling that it cannot be the way it has been so far, where do I find the steps to take ahead?
This was a question I’d not really thought to ask, really, one that unfolded more upon retrospect of my experiences than a question that had cogently popped up in my brain at the time of living through it.
When I started the sleep experiment, it was only out of frustration and irritation. After the morning pages had drawn my sleep deprivation to the forefront of my attention, it was impossible not to see it in everything I did, and at that point, it made ignoring the problem an active choice instead of a passive one. It was the same way how once my fingers found a scab whilst idling running themselves over skin, I now had to subsequently mentally tell myself not to pick at it, or my fingers would unerringly gravitate themselves back to the edge of dry skin, a nail absentmindedly playing along the border till it snaps off.
Perhaps it is a personality trait- once I find something that I want to do something about, I’ve never really been able to keep myself away.
And yet, as I did it, it was not with the intention of doing any kind of major overhaul. I was just tired of being tired. If there was any envisioned ideal outcome that I’d pictured in my mind, it was probably of me doing the exact same things I’d done before, just without that numbing pall of sleep deprivation that cloaked every waking moment.
Looking back, however, if something was such a central tenet of my experience of life, I should have expected that moving to change it would have it catching upon other things that had hinged upon it.
Like lifting an old, dead log that had the time to sink and plant itself into the soil, bringing it up brought multiple crawling carapaces and wriggling, eyeless lengths up to the surface. Each part of my life and routine was connected to yet another, and as I dredged up each and took a look at it in the light, I was slowly and steadily shifting my baseline for normal in my life.
Take my perspective toward rest, for example.
With the sleep experiment giving me smaller gaps of time that I was conscious within, I ran a strict schedule. Each time I awoke, I assessed my level of tiredness, and I thought about the things I needed to do.
What could I clear for the day? For half a day? If I was a little tired and wanted to respect that, what was a small, twenty minute task I could check off before I went straight back into the land of my dreams?
It was as if the time I had and the tasks I had to do were little puzzle pieces, and I had to find the absolute right fit for each, whether it was clearing my emails or writing or crafting a new cover letter. I had acknowledged that sleep was important, that I had to make time for it, but in the little cracks in the new foundation I was building, could I slip in my efficiency and sense of completion?
Could I fit this new change seamlessly into my old life?
The reply to this unspoken question was both quick and unsurprising. I started to wake up stiff and tired, started to close my eyes once I’d opened them, wanting a few more seconds before I’d get up. Sometimes, faced with this problem, I’d try to go back to sleep or shift things around, though I was confused about why I was so tired in the first place. Wasn’t I resting?
Well, I was sleeping, that was for sure. Sometimes when I attempted to go back to sleep, I would shift about, restless and dissatisfied. I tried to schedule less tasks for the day (though I felt that it was already a small workload), to whip out my yoga wheel to ease out the stiffness and creaky ache of my joints, planted half-an-hour of reading time solidly into the end of my schedule like a gift.
But even then it was at the bottom of my priorities, and often I would meet the end of the day, where the supposed rest time coincided with the time to go back to sleep. Even as my tiredness reduced and I slowly gained more energy and hours in a day, the rest times kept getting overshadowed by a task that took longer than I anticipated, or the tasks going so smoothly that I wanted to push forward with my momentum.
But that wasn’t a problem I had with rest, I was just too slow.
I was great at resting. Self-identifying with both hedonism and laziness, I might not have had life figured out yet, but I was pretty sure I had the fun, pleasurable parts in the bag. I could spend days of my life reading, while away hours on a game or spend some time staring mindlessly into a pond as I listened to the gentle rippling of water. If I wasn’t careful, I was sure that I could waste an entire life that way.
So then, why hadn’t I?
Looking within that, I realised that my plans for rest often either involved planning an outing, or reducing my daily to-do list by a few items, as a treat to myself. Both were well-meaning, but one was an entire event I introduced with new things to plan for (that I would eventually have to recover from), and the other was less a plan for rest than a lessening of work and expectations.
And burrowed deep within that framework of thought was a fear, a belief that if I threw myself into my rest, into the things that left me drained and pleasured, that I would never come out.
That rest was a reward to be handed out cautiously between tasks, after I had earned it. That it was a cliff edge’s sink of time, within which I would luxuriate without abandon and discard the rest of my scruples for. That I would not do the hard work that mattered to me if I gave myself the reward first.
In my mind, rest was something to be hoarded, an incentive, instead of a right.
And if I was wasting so much time on correcting my possibly unchangeable sleep schedule, then was it not a given that the remainder of my time should be spent on things that were more important?
I hadn’t been looking, but there my next step ahead was, turned over in the light. Faced with this new crossroad, would I turn over another log, half-rotted in the undergrowth? Or would I set it back down, try and focus on the previous problem and excise it as much as I could without disturbing the inner layers that might drag up yet more things, even more entrenched in the soil?
I chose option 3- to poke at the newfound log and test how much give it had before it would snap in my fingers.
I’d been great at surviving, at patching myself up, at planning moves and executing them, but I’d never really had a game plan for rest. Would having a plan for one’s rest defeat the whole idea? When given the opportunity to just rest compared to work, would I waste the day? There was only one way to find out.
I picked a day where I only had one task planned for the day, and in case of emergency (see: getting too sucked into my enjoyment and becoming lazy), the tasks could be done the next day, with no real consequence except greater stress and a customary dose of disappointment in myself.
I made the plan: To sleep if I got tired, of course, but also to make tea, find a nice playlist, and to rest. I stacked my books on the work table, placed my games on my bench, and got a good night’s sleep in preparation.
And to my surprise, it went really well. Not only did I have an extremely riveting read and spend some some of my time catching pokemon and using the new functions to pet them over and over, I did the task I’d planned in a short break of time after lunch.
As I was brewing my tea, I finally opened my backlog of chats and caught up on what my friends had been getting up to. I got another short nap, and I worked on the blog.
Emboldened and surprised, I tried it once more, and then again.
Each time, when I focused on my rest, what I needed to get done clicked gently, easily into place.
Each time, it confirmed a truth I didn’t think would be true. On days where I put my rest first, I counterintuitively got more done.
I didn’t finish my to-do list on either situation, which probably speaks to me overestimating my own abilities and is a separate problem.
When I focus on what needs to get done, I complete at most 70% of it, do not rest, and am more tired the next day. When I focus on my rest, all but once I completed about 60% of what I wanted, and I still felt pleasantly drained, but not in a way where I would regret the next day. The one time I didn’t, now with greater clarity not clouded with sleep, I can admit that I felt a lot better the next day, which hints that my body was probably really needing to rest.
I would like to believe that I would know if I needed the break, that I would see the signs, but I have to accept that I am not as knowledgeable as I’d thought. If I made a living out of ignoring my own body, I shouldn’t be surprised when it no longer speaks.
It’s a little amusing.
I pride myself on trying different things, on being open to the information that comes through and changing my approach accordingly. But when faced with the idea that I might not be lazy, that I should rest before I feel like I deserve it, I grow strangely resistant. I feel suspicious, as if it is too good to be true. But sometimes, the way to convince myself of a truth is to live accordingly and wait for my mind to catch up.
For it seems to be the other way around. When I am well-rested, I want to do the work I am passionate about, to contribute to my community, and to love. It is when I cherish myself and my body that I am cherished in turn, growing more clear-headed and energetic.
It is my birthright to be well-rested, if only so that I can encourage others to do the same.
Just yesterday, I focused on stopping to pet some dogs I came across, on appreciating the way the flowers shone under the light.
I rode two horses so they could stretch their legs, and walked another four before 12pm. When I got home, instead of taking my momentum and running with it, I had my lunch and took a nap without setting my alarm.
When I awoke, I worked on posts for my blog, watched the sunset, and met a friend for a run. Then, I replied some emails, moisturised, cut my nails and even put on a face mask. After that, I prepped for an interview I have coming up soon, and read a little before bed.
It was a very successful day.
The rhythm is a wonderful push and pull, a combination of work I love, and rest I enjoy.
Of work that is dreary but needs doing, of routines to remind my body of my care for it. Of time with others, and time apart. Of rest of the body, and rest of the mind. Of invigoration and movement of the physical, the sinking deep and then quick skim of the mental. And written here, I am proud.
And yet, there is always that quiet doubt. There is the wandering thought if I could have done more, done faster, if I’d slept less, stared less. There is the fear that as I’d stopped for the night, put down the pen to pick up my phone, that I am getting left behind.
And yet, words are getting written. And yet, I have now caught up with my friend, shared jokes that make me chuckle even now. And yet, the blog is going at a constant pace. I must have faith.
Written down in retrospect, this is the sort of the rhythm I would want to aim for. So I will keep trying, keep crafting and shifting the music of my life, listening for if it sounds like a melody I enjoy humming along to. For if it ever hits a discordant note, I can always change it.
But till I hear that it is no longer in tune with my life, I will keep singing the song of my rest.
I will dig my fingers into the soil and bring up this second log, not expecting, but also not being surprised if it drags up yet another submerged, tangled root along with it. And whilst moving along, clearing out the choked earth step by step, I will endeavour to bring my rest with me.
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