Learning to Rest in the Woods
This piece is a reflection on my time at an artist retreat with Wild Rumpus.
When was the last time you felt fully rested? I’m not sure I can remember, definitely not as an adult.
Rest is something that has become an increasing focus of my work, and personal life. Partly out of necessity in living in a chronically fatigued body constantly teetering on the edge of burnout, and partly for the hope and determination that there is more to life that what’s been sold to us. This life of exhaustion, and the feelings of guilt and inadequecy that join it can’t be all there is, surely?
So when I saw the oppotunity of an artist’s retreat with Wild rumpus I thought “oh, maybe I can take some time to focus on rest here”. I felt it needed a “purpose” other than me saying I needed a break so I proposed I’d write a workshop and practice napping outdoors, and they accepted.
I arrived on a hot, dry, mid June day. Late. A screw in my tyre I’d acquired somewhere in the last few weeks meant I had to take a slight detour, and though it was an easy fix I was arriving already feeling behind. My thoughts were “I’ve got to make the most of this opportunity, it’s the first time I’ve been given something like this! I have to prove myself and show I deserve this!”
I was counting days, and planning, listing the things I “should” achieve on this trip. The anxiety and feelings overwhelm building. At some point I stepped outside myself for a second and realised the absurdity of trying to be productive on a retreat, of stressing myself planning a few days of rest.
This was a chance to explore, to let go, to just exist and learn from the world around me and I was giving myself a schedule that I’d feel I “failed” if I wasn’t “productive enough”. Productivity culture had me by the scruff of the neck and something needed to shift.
New goals: pressure off, exist and do whatever feels right each day, listen to the world around me, and try and take a nap every day. I was going to learn to rest from the world around me, or try to.
June is not the easiest time of year to look around for inspiration to rest here in the UK. In December or February rest, dormancy, and hibernation are all around. The trees have lost their leaves and stand in a winter slumber, and everything feels quieter, sleepier outside of our human world. But June? Well that’s as close to as busy as it gets and everywhere I look there’s a flurry of energy.
In the mornings the cacophony of the dawn chorus wakes me up and birdsond serenades me back to sleep again at night, following close behind all day as tired parents zip back and forth to nests feeding hungry cheeping babies.
In the heat of the day while I struggle to move chrickets chirp away, and butterflied flutter through long grasses and flower beds.
When it rains suddenly all of the slimy creatures come out of their hiding places. Frogs, worms, and slugs seem to appear from nowhere and mosses come alive. Their bright and soft greens unfurling everywhere moisture touches.
As the sun’s light slowly wanes on these long summer days bats fly above, and even in the dark there is much rustling, maybe the screech of an owl.
I open the compost bin to a swarm of flies, and the smell of fresh decomposition as the squirrels try to sneak in to grab our unwanted food.
Even the trees standing as a constant against the flurry of activity are in full energy mode too, most have flowered and are now working hard to produce berries, nuts and seeds to create the next generation. Their greens photosynthesising the rich summer sun.
Everywhere I look there is activity, noise, flowers blooming, life in all its busyness. Should i be trying to rest, or learn about rest right now? Have I picked the wrong time?
No, I must be missing something. This can’t be all there is. Nothing is in a constant state of activity, surely?
I think back to earlier in my trip walking past ducks happily napping in the middle of a boardwalk and barely noticing the thuds of human feed walking by them. It felt like an odd sight, for them to be asleep and unbothered by us.
Rest is a vulnerable state. Most creatures, including humans, rest in shelter hiding away from potential danger. It’s not something we tend to see directly. It’s also quiet, still, harder to notice than the flurry of summer activity going on around me.
So I take some time to notice the patterns in the flurry around me, where are the negative spaces? Who is missing while many are visible? This is not a quick or momentary process like I’ve been doing so far, its slow. The thoughts trickle through my brain as I am wandering, sitting, napping.
In the heat of the day while the crickets chirp and butterflies flit by, as some of the birds still sing, there is much missing. The slimy creatures who venture out in the rain are nowhere to be seen, likely hiding where they can retain their moisture. Many mammals, myself included, slow down and seek shade, not wanting to overheat as the sun is high overhead.
At night though the bats hunt and the owls call, while there is the rustle of many a nocturnal creature the world is quieter. Most birds sleep, photosynthesis pauses and life feels very different.
In the pouring rain frogs appear as I dodge slugs on footpaths, and life inside mosses is revitalised. The occasional soggy bird may rush past. But the main source of noice is the patter of the rain, it is peaceful, much of the world is hiding.
And though there is much green, so many flowers in bloom and fruits and berries being made through long summer days the seeds of thousands of species sit in wait. Dormant, biding their time until the conditions are just right for them to sprout and grow.
In every moment there are creatures “missing” from the mosaic of mid-summer busyness, resting in their own way. Each person, human or otherwise, follows a rhythm. A rhythm of rest and action that ebbs and flows with the hours, the days, the seasons. A Rhythm I doubt they have to think twice about following.
Yet I, a very exhausted human, spend so much time wondering how to rest. Pondering and fretting about my own rhythms. Rythyms I am forced to ignore. Rhythms my ancestors were slowly severed from over who knows how long ago.
As humans living in the claws of capitalism we are severed from our natural rhythms, severed from rest. No matter the weather outside, the temperature, whether it’s the dead of winter or the height of summer we are expected to keep going at just the same pace. To keep making money so that we can afford to exist we have to ignore the ancient ebb and flow of bodies tied to the ebb and flow of the earth. We are more burnt out than ever, culturally and collectively ignoring signals our fellow, more than human, neighbours never have to think about.
I am a very tired human, perpetually burnout for forcing myself to comply with a system that has never had me in mind. Yet when I look to the world around me I am reassured. My need for deep rest, often, does not make me flawed or broken, it simply means I am a part of this earth. And though it may take generations to do so I believe we can make it back to our natural rhythms, back to rest, back to a reciprocal relationship with our only home.
“Stay in the place of knowing that you are not a failure, inadequate or unworthy because you are tired and you want to rest!” - Tricia Hersey, Rest is Resistance
I will need this reminder, again and again, until my final rest when I am finally brought back to the natural rhythms of this world. But that is ok.
If you’d like to read more on rest I can recommend the following books which I am very grateful for helping inform my work and this piece:
Rest is Resistance by Tricia Hersy
Radical Rest by Evie Muir
Undrowned: Black Feminist Lessons From Marine Mammals by Alexis Pauline Gumbs
I am also looking to read books specifically looking at disability and rest and would welcome reccomendations.
Thank you Wild Rumpus for having me on the retreat, the time in the woods was both restful and fruitful.