Permission To Rest
It is so hard to give ourselves permission to rest. Even in the depths of winter, as the natural world around us slows to a slumber, we march on, relentless.
Well, not I, not this year. I have been in a state of hibernation this winter. I was so sick last summer, I feel it necessary to reserve my energy in these times of darkness. I empty, and prepare for the coming of the light. I take pleasure in my body being indoors. I listen to the voices around me and inside me. I listen to my kids race up and down the hallway as they scream and play, watch our emotions fire and fade, and settle in. I give thanks for the rain and the cold and the moments of rest by the hearth, as the storms beat over our cottage and out to sea. I soak my bones our old enamel tub and rely upon arnica, lavender, tulsi and nettle. I envision a hedge of rosemary to encircle us, with a wall of roses. In the beautiful bursts of sunshine between the storms, we stretch our legs, run and scream and breathe the fresh cold air deep into our lungs. I scrub, I chop, I sweep, I stretch, I sing, I dream, I cook with renewed vigor, I bake. I wait. I imagine ways to transform my surroundings and welcome my dreams to nestle in softly around me, as I truly nestle into the wildness of this landscape. I watch my little ones draw and climb and jump, listen to them laugh, and am amazed. I am in awe and in wonder at this, my life. I give thanks. I sit in the cold, my hunger beside me, and instead of resist, instead of succumbing to fear or rage or depression, I push myself to slow down, to give thanks. I meditate on the warmth. I listen carefully for the echo of music on the winds, and welcome my hungry heart to grow.
We run through the woods and they are empty, but for us; I can nearly hear the echo of the ancients around us. Slowing down opens doorways to the past, and with each decision to give myself permission to rest, to move back into my aching body, I can feel my resonance deepening. The fear is fading now into the shadows, traces remain but its stronghold over me is lost. The death of one self gives way to the birth of another, truer. I welcome and depend upon new allies, such as Cedar, and deeper still, as Redwood, whose red bark glows against the swollen winds of winter. And I give thanks.
Redwood in small grove, Courtown Woods
High Cross of Kildare, Courtown Woods
