I don’t rest easy. And I mean that both literally and figuratively.
I worry. I fret. I nibble fingernails and twist hair. I’m anxious.
I also can’t sit still. I rarely rest -- as in simply sit. More often I thumb through a magazine, write a grocery list or jot story ideas while I watch TV. Or surf the Web while I’m on the phone. Or polish toe nails while kids splash in the pool.
So when Ann Voskamp asked us to write about rest this week, my first thought was, “Well that’s easy. I don’t rest.”
But Saturday morning I realized that’s not entirely true. I’m in a constant state of movement, yes, but that doesn’t mean I don’t rest my spirit and soul.
Often I rest in motion in the garden. There I putter, pulling a clover weed here, creeping Charlie there. Crouch low to glimpse chartreuse pepper. Bend to inhale spicy scent of spiky Monarda, wispy Russian sage, pungent lily.
The kids and I often stroll out to the flower garden that borders the street. We like to see new blooms first thing, as sun breaks through birch, before Nebraska heat sizzles.
Stamen stand tall, pollen-drenched, beckoning like candle flames.
Bee bumbles inside prickly Echinacea, black legs golden in soft pollen.
Moth unfurls proboscis, drinking deep.
Emerald wasp burrows.
Fountain grass waves at Veronica, Stella de Oro, Heliopsis.
Leaves whisper gentle to clanging chimes as sun climbs high.