Care is Rest
To me idleness speaks of doing nothing at all, but the truth is that modern life has not equipped us for the act of literally doing nothing.
Every Friday between now and the beginning of February, I’ll be sharing an excerpt from my third book, CARE: The radical art of taking time. This is in part to celebrate her release in the UK and North America, and in part to say thank you for being part of this wonderful corner of the internet throughout 2022.
Today marks the final excerpt from Care, and it’s all about rest. I hope you’ve been able to make space for a little rest over the past few weeks, or that there are some suggestions in today’s post that might help you carve out some time to rest over the weekend.
Enjoy!
Brooke xx
Is there not a space between the tumult and the pulse? A place we may rest, quiet the noise, the inner voice. Sink gently into being air and blood and flesh and bone Being here, being now Only being. Home.
Everything we've explored in the book so far has led us to this point.
All the connecting and listening and noticing, all the time spent in awe and nature and wonder, the kindness, creativity and play, has prepared us for this experiment – one that might prove to be the most difficult yet.
What is this difficult experiment, you ask?
It's nothing.
…
No, really, it’s nothing.
…
I don't mean it's insignificant, I mean it's actually nothing. Doing nothing.
You know. Chilling. Vegging. Mooching. Basking. Hanging. Sweet Fanny Adams.
I'm talking about delicious, syrupy idleness. An idea that many of us have a tortured relationship with, given its connotations of laziness, luxury, guilt and privilege.
This is hardly surprising, of course, given productivity hacks and leaning in and finding a side gig are now part of the curriculum of modern life. We all know that hustlers prosper while slackers lag and when you combine this with the age-old idioms that tell us we should Never put off until tomorrow what we can do today, and ldle hands are the devil's workshop…. Well, things start to get serious.
Add to that the worn-out adage that Only boring people get bored, we understandably cram life full of relentless activity and consumption trying to stave off that nothingness, trying to keep the boredom at bay, trying to prove our worth.
We buy stuff, we eat stuff, we read reams of information on our screens, we watch hundreds of hours of television, we listen to podcasts, we search for the hole-shaped thing that will plug the gap in our lives, that might just allow us to feel content. The thing that could just be the key to unlocking a sense of self-worth and maybe, just maybe, allow us to stop for a moment.
The good news, I guess, is that there is literally no end to the things we can do and consume in order to alleviate boredom. We could fill up several lifetimes with those efforts if we wanted to.
Yet, we also crave downtime. In pre-Covid times we craved it because the pace of our lives was brutal and our brains were screaming for a reprieve and now, as the world continues to change due to Covid, I believe many of us crave downtime either because the overwhelming nature of pandemic-related news, rolling public health updates and concern for family and friends leaves us burnt out and exhausted, or because lockdowns reminded us what it felt like to stay home, to rest, to actively avoid making plans, to potter around our homes.
Perhaps they also showed us that caring for ourselves and those around us can be as simple (and as difficult) as staying in.
So, yes, I think we have a tortured relationship with idleness. We find the idea of doing nothing deeply uncomfortable and incredibly attractive, a shameful, exciting thing. We are apologetically delighted by it. A weekend with no plans stretches out in front of us and we can barely contain our excitement before asking ourselves what we should fill it with, as it would be such a shame to waste it doing nothing.
'You're predisposed to idleness,' said Ben one May morning, not unkindly, as I wandered the veggie garden with a cup of coffee.
I'd told him I was going out for five minutes but, as often happens, time stretched out as I slowly moved around the beds, inspecting the broccoli and kale and cauliflower seedlings, turning the leaves over, searching their soft undersides for the tiny, white, full-stop eggs of the cabbage moth and scraping them off with my thumbnail, and winding the seeking tendrils of my new pea shoots towards the twine and timber frame I had made a few weekends earlier.
It's no surprise to anyone who knows me that I love these quiet moments. Over the years I've explored and experimented with slowing down and as a result have discovered so much joy in the peaceful minutes tucked in among the folds of a full life. I will advocate endlessly for the benefits of finding these pockets of slow in our days, and still I found myself unsure whether my husband telling me I was predisposed to idleness should leave me feeling offended or proud because, at least the way I saw it, I wasn't being idle.
I was moving around the garden, bending and weeding and tending and observing. Sure, I was doing it all slowly, not adhering to any agenda or trying to tick items off my to-do list, but it wasn't lazy. Was it?
Perhaps the issue is that we don't really know how to define idleness. Is the only way to be idle to do literally nothing? Or is it doing things at a relaxed pace? Is scrolling our phones an example of idleness, or wandering the garden or watching TV or reading a book or going for a walk?
To me idleness speaks of doing nothing at all, but the truth is that modern life has not equipped us for the act of literally doing nothing. Even when we think that's what we're doing, often it's not the case.
We might physically be still as we scroll our phones, read the news, catch up on the latest episode of our favourite show or listen to a podcast, and we might convince ourselves that we're doing nothing. But those things aren't nothing.
Idleness is defined by the Merriam-Webster dictionary as “a lack of action or activity”, but we don't have a framework for doing nothing and we don't have many examples of it to model ourselves on. We feel the need to always be producing or consuming and, as we’ve seen throughout this book, both of these modes of doing have a place in our lives.
There is a space in between though, where we can sit, simply being. There is a space into which we can expand and think our thoughts and live in our rich but largely ignored inner lives for a moment, where we can reflect and delve and ponder. The time spent in this in-between is not wasted – though by today's consume/produce standards it may appear to be – it is vital in learning how to settle into ourselves, to find some contentment and self-awareness, and only through time spent there will we ever free ourselves from the relentless need to do.
Learning to live a part of every day in the in-between is how the things we do take on meaning and importance. It's where we work out how we feel and why, it's when we make discoveries about who we are and who we're becoming. Learning to live a part of every day in the in-between is how we change our lives.
The Western world doesn't operate in a way that makes idleness easy. It requires a certain amount of defiance, a desire to push back against the status quo a little because, really, is there anything more counter-cultural than joyfully doing nothing at all?
We know society demands activity of us, if not at work or through our outputs on social media or in maintaining our homes or ensuring that even our pottering is productive (if you're not tidying and organising your house a la The Home Edit then can you even call it a weekend?) then at the very least in a pre-approved list of socially acceptable, commodified self-care rituals.
Turns out the only kind of Idleness we’re really encouraged to partake in is the capitalist kind: spa days, Netflix binges, takeaway dinners, health retreats, face masks. These are all welcome because presumably we'll be paying for all of these things with money that we've made working because we are productive members of society. And, well, money makes the world go 'round after all, doesn't it?
The status quo is clearly not working for us. The confusing mix of guilty relief many of us felt on lockdown is evidence of this. It shouldn't have taken a devastating pandemic for so many of us to recognise how much we need downtime, but it did. It was the first time many of us stopped to think about just how much of our time and energy goes into doing all the things that we should be doing, and as we stopped and became acclimatised to less activity, many of us found something unexpected there.
I was amazed, and quite honestly buoyed, by the conversations I found myself having with people during the early days of lockdown. Conversations about the environment, about social welfare policies, about mental health and the need to prioritise services for those of us living with mental illness, about funding public hospitals, about what constitutes an essential worker, about the immense pressure put on our teachers and frontline healthcare workers, about media bias and disinformation.
It was as though stepping back from the regular rush of our day-to-day lives freed up space to think a little more, to notice the world around us, to reflect on what's been happening in front of our eyes for years but that we only had time to see once the blinkers of endless activity were removed.
When we're busy fixing and working and choring and maintaining and waiting for the day when we can enjoy our much-awaited rest, we don't get the chance to ask, could it be that this relentless pace serves another purpose, one beyond relentless productivity?
Busy, overwhelmed people don't usually spend time questioning the system they live in. When we're trying to keep our heads above water, we're not looking at social justice, we're not asking how much our lowest- paid workers are receiving, or why clothes and home goods are so cheap or where all of our plastic goes when we throw it away. We can't, we're too busy.
At weekends we're painting and gardening and brunching and drinking and socialising. Our pace of life has been robbing us of the curiosity and care required to change the world.
So, if we're so entrenched in the cult of doing, is it even possible to learn how to stop? Yes. But the irony is this: it's going to take work.
At this point I'd love to introduce you to the Italian concept of la dolce far niente, which means ‘the sweetness of doing nothing’.
It can look like lots of different things – napping in the afternoon, or people-watching from an outdoor seat at the local coffee shop, or idly wandering your neighbourhood with nowhere in particular to go, nothing in particular to do.
La dolce far niente is as beneficial to our wellbeing as it is appealing, but here's why I’m not going to suggest you dive into it headfirst. We're so results-driven, conditioned to value productivity, that even our efforts at self-care and wellbeing need to be quantifiably good. (Nowhere to go? How will I know when I arrive? Nothing to do? How will I know when I've done it?)
For many of us, stepping into delicious idleness won't come easily, so I've devised a (slightly tongue-in-cheek but also hopefully helpful) training plan to help you build your ‘do-nothing’ muscles. It might seem silly, or perhaps you're already someone who knows how to be idle, in which case, go on with your bad self. But many among us are not so well equipped to dive right into doing nothing and it's for those of us who struggle that I've created the Official Learn to Do Nothing Training Guide. (Follow these four simple steps and you too will be doing nothing like a champ in no time!)
Perhaps you think that sounds paradoxical: having to work at doing nothing. However, when the norm is to be constantly producing or consuming, doing nothing needs to be an event, one you can plan for, train for, apply yourself to. And, just like any other training, over time you'll find that you'll build the muscle memory and strength that allows you to slip in and out of idleness far more easily.
Let me start by saying that there are times when the sweetness of doing nothing is a pretty terrible idea. Staring idly while driving – terrible idea. While presenting to the board – terrible idea. While operating on a patient or serving a customer or handing out awards at school assembly – terrible idea. But that doesn't mean we don't have other opportunities to embrace la dolce far niente for a minute. Even when we’re busy.
Stage 1: Baby steps
Set aside a few minutes and dedicate the time to the practice of doing nothing. Ideally, you'll do this every day, but since you're just starting out, find whatever time you can and go from there.
You might nominate the five minutes you spend sitting in your car outside school pick-up or set your alarm for five minutes earlier every morning. Maybe you sit in the park on your lunchbreak, lie on your bed, turn up to your yoga class a few minutes early – it doesn't matter where the time comes from, just find a way to carve out a few minutes from your day and commit to spending them doing absolutely nothing.
Once you've set that time aside, turn your phone off, or at least put it on silent and put it out of your line of sight. (If you're worried about going over time, or constantly checking your progress, feel free to set a timer for a few minutes.) You are allowed to take these few moments and, I can almost guarantee you, whatever the pinging, buzzing notifications signify can wait until you finish.
Then, take a moment to get comfy. Wriggle around and find a restful position to sit in. You might even want to channel your cat or dog, the way they stretch and move when they sit down and prepare to rest, adjusting and readjusting until they're ready for stillness.
Now comes the hard part. You need to just ... stop. Be still. Settle into your body and breathe. Don't feel like you need to meditate or be mindful of anything, you're in training for doing nothing, and nothing means nothing – no agenda, no reason. Nothing at all.
You might feel itchy or jittery at first. Perhaps your thoughts will get noisy. Now is probably the time your brain serves up a list of all the other things you should be doing, running through your to-do list. Ignore it.
You might want to reach for your phone. Don't. It can wait.
Sit with any discomfort that arises. By all means, recognise it, acknowledge it, but don't engage with it. A friendly wave, an ‘I'lI come and see you in a minute’ half-smile, but let it wait as you continue to simply be. Revel in the experience of being. This may or may not feel pleasant.
Then, when your time is up, give your fingers and toes a wiggle, take a deep breath, and move on with your day.
Try this each day for a week and observe how you feel when you do it. Is there any change in the way you approach your practice? Are you sitting for longer? Are you feeling more or less agitated? Are you learning how to acknowledge your thoughts while also leaving them alone?
Stage 2: Sitting with your inner-life
As your ‘do nothing’ muscles continue to strengthen, you're going to extend the length of time you're in training.
You can add five more minutes to your idle time or find a second window throughout your day. (Just a heads-up, sitting on the toilet can count, as can waiting for the bus, queueing at the farmers' market or waiting for a friend to meet you at the pub.)
Wherever you decide to practise, go through the same process each time and continue to observe your reactions as you sit (stand, lie) with them.
You might find that this is when your brain starts serving up scene after scene of memories you'd rather forget – the dumb thing you said in a meeting, the horrible phone call you made, the way you screwed up a problem at home – it’s okay.
One of the reasons so many of us work hard to avoid boredom in the first place is because our inner lives often feel uncomfortable. The regrets, the mistakes, the foot-in-mouth moments, they all bubble up to the surface when we stop cramming more in. These thoughts are part of our inner lives, and learning how to be with them, learning how to acknowledge them without reacting, is an important part of developing stillness. Let them float in and out of your head and continue to simply be.
Stage 3: Meandering
If you're feeling strong, try taking your practice on the move, either in addition to or instead of practising in private. Go for a brief walk and leave your phone at home. (If you can't, at least keep it in your pocket and have your ears bud-free. It's incredibly hard for us to practise doing nothing when listening to music or a podcast.)
Try listening to the sounds around you instead or let thoughts roll around in your head as you practise doing nothing with them.
You might find it difficult at first to acknowledge that this isn't for exercise – it’s not necessary to get your heart rate up or walk a particular distance. As strange as it may seem, this is simply a practice in idle wandering, much like a flâneur. Nowhere to go, nowhere to be.
You can walk with your thoughts, you can walk without them, you can spend time paying attention to the buildings and trees and people and animals you see, or not. You've now reached the meandering stage of your training!
Stage 4: La dolce far niente
Try expanding your practice to thirty minutes at least once a week.
Can you take a longer walk? Are you able to use your commute as your longer practice? Perhaps your kids have dance practice or karate lessons; instead of spending that time doing the groceries or catching up news or racing home to get dinner on before racing back to pick them up, could you sit in the car for thirty minutes and practise doing nothing?
Maybe you can shut yourself in your bedroom, letting your family know that you're having alone time, or wait until the kids are in bed and take a bath. Maybe you could go somewhere in nature where you can just sit and be. A beach, a river, a lake or a lookout, a quiet bush track or a paddock.
What you'll discover after practising for a while is that your ‘do nothing’ muscles know how to proceed, allowing thoughts to wander and eyes to land and move on. You will gradually be able to resist the urge to scroll, write or create with remarkably little effort.
You are now ready to idle at will. Congratulations!
Over time, you can also begin practising at other times during the day, when you're folding the laundry or checking the mail or walking from the train station to your office, for example. Once you're equipped with the skill of idling, everyday tasks and pockets of your day offer opportunities to find stillness, even if you're technically in motion.
This is where la dolce far niente starts really making sense, where you realise that not every moment of the day needs to have productive goals attached to it, and you become content to move slowly and idly. You can call it mind-wandering or daydreaming if you want, but whatever you call it, this is when the benefits of idleness really start to make themselves known in your life.
Perhaps that all sounds very nice to you (or perhaps not), but the question remains, how can doing nothing help you care for yourself and others?
Idleness allows us to decompress from the relentless noise of modern life, providing an opportunity to recalibrate to a baseline of stillness where the ability to simply be for a moment does not result in boredom but in peace: relief in the quiet.
That's what doing nothing offers. That's what mind-wandering and daydreaming offers: a counterweight to the heaviness of a hectic world.
We shouldn't need big impressive reasons to adopt a little idleness into our days when the very joy of it stems from the fact that we see the things that need doing and we choose to stop for a moment anyway.
10 ways to practise rest if you have…
Half a minute:
When you wake in the morning, take thirty seconds to simply lie still and listen to the sounds around you
Let your mind wander as you complete a mundane task, like washing dishes or weeding the garden
Stare out the window between phone calls
Stand in the sun and feel its warmth on your back.
Half an hour:
Sit in a bar or coffee shop and people-watch, eavesdrop and let your mind wander
Take a nap
Lie on the grass and watch the clouds.
Half a day or more:
Take a long, meandering walk around your neighbourhood, with no destination in mind and no phone
Head to the coast and wander the rockpools
Go camping and take no entertainment with you (no books, no card games, etc.) just rely on your own imagination and see where it takes you.
That’s the final excerpt of Care. If you’ve enjoyed them, you might want to consider picking up a copy here.
I’ll be back in your inbox soon with the first fresh slow-living love letter for 2023. If you’re not already subscribed to The Tortoise, make sure you subscribe below so you don’t miss it.
Until then, embrace la dolce far niente this weekend and take good care.