How many times have I heard myself tell the people whom I care about that it's okay to rest, to stop doing, and to choose to make looking after oneself their main priority? How many times have I encouraged people to seek out the rest or support that they need to regain their health? And why is it so very hard for me to do the same?
I don't rest easily, especially not on command. I'm far better at taking care of others than I am at taking care of myself. But this week, because people who care about me have said that I need to do this, I am reluctantly laying down my to-do list and trying to find ways to care for myself and to tend to my own spirit.
That's how today I found myself heading out for a long walk in the woods. I grew up in a home that backed onto public reserve land, so my backyard and playground was essentially Canadian Shield and mixed forest. The safe place where I often find myself when my spirit is unsettled and I need to meet with God is in the woods. Something deep within me is at home when I'm walking along the riverbank, or strolling through the woods, or clambering over granite outcrops. This is where I'm most at home. This is where I so often encounter God's presence.
As I was walking today, I noticed that my travels were slower than they were the last time I found myself in this particular wood. Our January thaw (the longest period of above O temperatures in Winnipeg in January since 1873!) has resulted in snow that has melted, turned to slush, and refrozen, and now today it is topped with a light dusting of freshly fallen snow. This makes for treacherous sidewalks, with a rutted, icy surface that is hidden from sight by a layer of soft whiteness. It is easy to trip, or to slip and slide, unless you slow down and watch where you're going. The path through the woods was fairly well-traveled, at least in a narrow lane, but if you weren't careful it was easy to fall off the edge of the packed surface into deep snow along the sides.
It got me to thinking about how sometimes the conditions in which we travel mean that we just have to slow down. A path I could travel at a decent clip when I was last here in September demands a slower pace in these January conditions. The freeze-thaw cycle has resulted in the emergence of beloved Winnipeg potholes, which has resulted in slower driving along some routes near my home in order to avoid costly repair bills. As an occupational therapist, I work in orthopaedic surgery, where I know all too well that if some folks with impaired balance or mobility don't slow down and stay indoors on icy, stormy days, there will be an influx of new hip and ankle fractures waiting to be fixed.
None of these things are a judgment. They just are. Slowing down is part of life--it's the nature of our humanity. There are seasons in our life when we need to care for our own needs, and sometimes that necessarily means making adjustments to our schedule so that we can appropriately adjust our pace to the conditions. This week, it means that I have taken my work email offline, and hidden my work phone deep in a drawer in an effort to create space for healing. For praying. For napping. For reading. For losing track of time. For breathing deeply. For wandering in the woods.
Because it would be foolish to ignore the conditions through which I find myself traveling in this season, and to simply insist on carrying on as if business as usual is a viable option. And it would be equally foolish to tell myself that it's a sign of failure or not being good at what I do that I need to take this time to care for myself. It's not because we've forgotten how to walk that we are slower and more clumsy in January snowbanks than on October's bare paths, and to suggest that's the case would be bizarre!
So, I guess this is permission to get cozy with a blanket and a book and a mug of tea, and to lose track of time, even to doze off on the couch for a while. It's permission to slow down, to rest, to acknowledge that I've pushed myself past the point of good health, and to make the necessary adjustments with thanksgiving that I have people who care about me enough to help me to see past my blind spots and who support me in the stopping and the not-doing.
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