Is busy-ness avoidance? The threat of rest.

What’s your relationship to rest? For a moment, close your eyes and contemplate: “what does rest mean to me?”

I’m interested in your initial reaction to that. Even now - after years of trying to unpick this go-to reaction - rest can still feel like a cop-out, an indicator of the weaker of the species, a failing. It’s a visceral reaction, a prickle of shame. Have you ever had that rare moment of putting your feet up with a hot cuppa, only for someone to arrive home early and you spring to your feet to make yourself look busy? I can definitely put my hands up to that one. And sitting down in the daytime, well, that’s a whole other level of shame! 

Rest is entirely counter-cultural.

Even our downtime can have a productive undertone to it - #NetflixAndChill binge-watching, catch-up, on-demand, FOMO on the latest pop culture hit of the moment. So unfamiliar, rest can feel hugely confronting.

When status is correlated to the extent of our busy-ness, and the ‘being in demand’ dopamine hit feeds our attachment to busy, it’s natural that consciously choosing to rest - proper rest - would feel like a guilty secret.

But busy-ness can also be an act of avoidance - a survival strategy of the nervous system.

Slowing down creates space. Slowing down creates a quietening. With space and quiet, what’s been resisted is heard and felt. 

I see the practice of yin yoga as a mirror to this. 

Yin yoga invites a slow, soft and still practice. There’s often a moment of ‘what now?’ for people new to this style, their busy mind searching for (craving, even) the next thing to do…. In yin yoga, the only ‘to do’ is to be. No pose to ‘achieve’ outwardly - with eyes often closed or gaze lowered, attention is drawn to the internal landscape - and that can be a disorienting and, for some, scary place to be. 

If keeping busy, striving and escapism have been a survival strategy, then slowing down (even slightly) can feel like a very real threat to the sense of self. The nervous system will, of course, respond to that - fight, flight, freeze or fawn.

That internal response - of threat - may be so subtle or habitual that it’s barely even noticable - more of an impulse to move back to the ‘safety’ of the known (the ‘doing’) rather than an overt reaction. Coming back to the micro view of a yin yoga class, it creates an opportunity to notice - emotions, thoughts, any impulses and behaviour. In a moment of stillness, what is noticed? What happens on the mat will reflect what happens off the mat too.

As I write this, we’ve just observed the clock changes here in the UK, shifting us into the darker months. Nature has shifted to a season of hibernation and replenishment. A reminder that we too can be ‘wintering’, tending to the roots ready for more growth and blossoming ahead. 

While a whole season of hibernation isn’t realistic, moments of tending to your roots can be. If an hour’s yin yoga class feels too slow, too confronting, micro-moments to pause can begin to build this muscle of rest - one that is essential to wellbeing and connection, both to others and to our truest self.

Tell me, what slow and mindful act can bring you a micro-moment of pause today? I’d love to know what that is for you…

“In an age of acceleration, nothing can be more exhilarating than going slow. And in an age of distraction, nothing is so luxurious as paying attention. And in an age of constant movement, nothing is so urgent as sitting still.” - Pico Iyer