The Radical Idea of Rest
Wellspring: Issue 3
Howdy and Welcome :)
In this edition of Wellspring I'll be talking about the radical idea of rest. I'll also be sharing an excerpt from my YA figure skating novel, The Weight of the Impossible. So, without further adieu, let's get into the proverbial meat and potatoes of the newsletter.
The Idea of Rest
Last issue I tackled the thorny issue of "productivity" versus process, and how focusing on the writing process is imperative to writerly satisfaction.
This issue, I want to turn to a deeply radical notion, something that doesn't get very enough attention in contemporary American culture: the idea of rest.
All Hell Breaks Loose
Before I get too deeply into rest, let me preface this with a small story.
When the Inauguration took place on January 20th this year, followed by a flood of executive orders (which are illegal in their scope and executive overreach), I quickly found myself overwhelmed. In the weeks following the Inauguration, there was daily -- hourly -- news of something else that the President and his cronies had done, actions which had far-reaching and often devastating implications. The shuttering of USAID, which will have huge ripple effects throughout the world and the United States, and not for the better; the executive orders cruelly targeting trans folk and trans youth especially; the coup by Elon Musk seizing sensitive taxpayer information . . . I could go on, but for the sake of brevity I won't. Suffice to say that the President and his cronies are having a free-for-all with the U.S. government and don't care who they hurt in the process -- so long as they get theirs, of course.
I felt completely hopeless some days, because it seemed never-ending. It still does. As I said, I quickly became overwhelmed and getting on social media was like getting punched repeatedly in the face by all the bad news flooding my timelines. One day, I remember vividly, I just couldn't take it anymore and I simply laid down and . . . took a nap. It was the best idea I'd had since the Inauguration, and helped me to reset and put things in perspective.
Rest and Resistance
This is where the concept of rest comes in. If you really think about it, rest can be a radical act in a world which demands so much of us all the time. Rest is especially radical as a necessary response to the rising fascism in the U.S. and other parts of the world. Now, I'm not saying don't do anything in response to frightening and overwhelming situations. But I am saying that if you want to be able to meaningfully resist, that you will need to rest in order to stay sharp and have the energy to fight.
Rest is an imperative response to authoritarianism and fascism. Those who are trying to take over and establish complete control and dominance in the government want to overwhelm you to the point that you break. Once broken, you'll more readily cave to their demands, no matter how horrible. Thus, meaningful rest is active resistance.
A Nice Cuppa
There are many ways to rest, not just taking a nap now and then when it's needed, or getting enough sleep (though it is both those things). Rest can be as simple as pausing in the middle of a stressful day to make a cup of tea. When I lived in England, pursuing my M.A., my good friend Katie always said that a "nice cuppa" was just the way to slow down and put everything into perspective. Nothing could be quite so bad when you had tea. Over the years, I've found this simple advice to be actually quite profound.
A nice cuppa could be anything, really, that allows you space for peace, calm, and respite. It could be knitting, gardening, writing a poem, taking a walk, watching a favorite TV show, doing a puzzle, etc. It's simply something which brings meaning to your day and yes, rest. Rest is restorative, nurturing the spirit and enabling us to face the worst -- and the best -- that life has to offer.
As Shakespeare once said of rest in Macbeth: "Sleep that soothes away all our worries. Sleep that puts each day to rest. Sleep that relieves the weary laborer and heals hurt minds. Sleep, the main course in life's feast, and the most nourishing."
So, don't hesitate to rest when your body and your spirit cry out for it, especially during these trying times. Make sure you're enjoying life's feast to the fullest -- and make sure you take time to rest.
An Excerpt From The Weight of the Impossible
All that said about rest, how about a tiny excerpt from my novel, which I am currently querying for representation?
The Weight of the Impossible is a contemporary YA novel about an ambitious teen figure skater struggling to untangle himself from his ex-girlfriend, whose emotional and sexual abuse has left him with serious trauma -- even as he develops feelings for a male coach, a relationship which just might help him -- or hurt him.
The following excerpt is the first few pages and I hope you enjoy it!
From The Weight of the Impossible
2018
Saturday, June 9
1. Love Is a Bitch
She has to ruin everything.
That scent feels like it’s stabbing me in the gut and nausea races up my throat. Running to the bathroom, I leap into a stall, not caring if anyone is there. When that’s all vomited up, I dry heave. Every time I think it’s over I remember that perfume from the girl in the lobby -- the same kind Laura wore -- and start gagging again.
I want to cry. I want to scream. I want to be on the ice, where everything is ok. Instead I’m choking on air and stupid memories.
When it finally stops, I lean against the stall wall, closing my eyes. The metal is cool and comforting against my forehead.
No. No no no fucking no. This isn’t supposed to happen here. I can’t be doing my “magic tricks” during the Freemont Open, before it’s even officially started. I came here to win, not to be fucked up in the bathroom before the Exhibition.
Someone else has come in and I hear him jabbering, probably on his phone, but he sounds muffled and far away.
I can’t even open my eyes. What if I look at myself and it’s like seeing everything through the wrong end of a telescope? Or one of the other magic tricks, where it feels like I’m a little bird flying outside of my body?
I pinch myself, hoping to draw blood, the spike of pain tearing through my skin. Noise fills me like water might fill and stretch and balloon. Opening my eyes, my feet, laced up in my scuffed black skates, don’t seem far away. I’m not drifting outside of my body. My shaking hands and arms are right here, I feel them. I even feel the stinging red crescents my nails left in my forearm.
Thank fuck. The static of panic that I didn’t notice had been building up drains from me suddenly.
“You know what? I don’t fucking care,” I hear the guy on the phone talking loudly. He lets out a frustrated growl and paces furiously.
Pushing out of the stall I nearly run right into him. He looks like he sucked on something pretty sour. What’s really ridiculous is that he’s clutching a packet of Granddaddy Purples and he’s chowing down on those gummies like nobody’s business. Like la-de-dah, not a care in the fucking world, this guy. That or he's got a massive pair to be gulping down gummies in the Freemont Ice Hall bathroom. There are kids and coaches and parents out in the lobby. Anyone could just walk in.
He notices me and his face goes blank the way adults’ faces do when they know they’ve done something they shouldn’t in front of a kid. He’s a deer in headlights as he clutches his bag of gummies.
“Can I have one?” I ask.
Because Jesus, fuck, I could use a couple. Granddaddy Purples always make me feel chill and soft, like I’m warm butter melting slowly in the pan.
He laughs and rolls the bag up before slipping it in the front pocket of his jeans.
“Look, you didn’t see me taking them. Besides, they’re medicinal.”
“Sure,” I shrug. “And I’m Yuzuru Hanyu.”
He laughs again and it’s a really great sound. It’s warm and tingly like the first gulp of whiskey. It makes me feel better for some reason.
“Cute,” he says, but it’s not rude or condescending.
Because his laugh sounded so great, I wonder if the rest of him is just as nice. So, I give him a once over. His rolled up sleeves reveal gorgeous arms, covered in colorful and amazing tattoos. I could trace the lines of those tattoos for days. His sweater’s two sizes too big and fails to show anything off except his throat and collarbone. There’s more awesome tattoos there. Plus, his hair’s a messy daydream. Sweeping his shoulders, it’s black-brown with hints of different colors. Like he tried to dye it, but it didn’t work, so the whole thing ended up slightly washed out, the colors faded and --
“Oh shit.”
“What?” he asks.
“The Exhibition. I’m going to miss it --”
He pulls out his phone.
“Nah, you’ve got about 15 minutes before the warm-up begins.”
“How do you know?”
“I’m a coach. I keep track of these things sometimes.”
He isn't being mean or anything. But he is smiling a little and that just makes him even hotter.
Wait.
“You’re a coach?” I blurt out.
Smooth, Zach.
He chuckles.
“Yeah.”
“Wow. Ok. Oh. Sorry . . .”
People from different rinks side-eye my asymmetrical haircut and badass industrial piercing. I sometimes wonder if judges ever dock me for my appearance because it’s just not “classy” enough for figure skating. And here’s this guy, sauntering around with his tattoos, crazy hair, and baggy sweater saying he coaches figure skating. He seems too -- messy. Not at all Mr. Clean Cut and Conservative.
“It's fine,” he waves his hand. “Everyone who doesn’t know me reacts pretty much the same.”
Then he actually walks over to me.
“I’m Daniel,” he says, offering his hand.
Am I supposed to shake it? What does this mean? Does Daniel . . . like me?
“I’m . . . Zach.”
Odds and Ends
Well, that's all for now. Just a reminder you can find me on BlueSky and Facebook, and read past issues of Wellspring here in the archives. I will visit your inboxes again in May. Until then, I hope you manage to find ways to rest and keep up your strength for the months ahead.