on why I can't ever rest alone
a restful musing
*intentional note: I want to draw your attention to a word in the title of my substack, “Musingsfromabrokenheart.” The word musing here is the byproduct of a carefully reflective and constructive work of art on my heart. Do you see that? Better yet, I hope you understand that I have cultivated this newsletter around my constant effort to think and move beyond who it is that I am now. I muse because no matter how much I learn, how many degrees I acquire, how many lectures I give…I’m not a true expert on much. I am brilliant yes. Deceptively so. And, I cultivate a deep curiosity about people, the way the world operates, and God. I hope you come here to muse awhile with me.
Before we go any further…
BLACK lives matter.
*sizzle *smoke*
I needed to clear the feed in case any bigots found their way here for a restful musing. Although I wish good on all of creation (still wrestling with roaches) I am not actively creating a place where bigots dwell with the marginalized. Black lives mattering is not antithetical to any soul on this planet…well that is unless you seek to benefit from interlocking systems of oppression. This phrase should welcome a fierce tenderness and determination. A resounding AMEN. (No I won’t do the work to spell out everyone else mattering. My love for humanity is evidenced throughout all of my work) Now, let’s talk about rest and community.
Self-care looks like Black girls and double Dutch.
I wish that Black Boys had more safe rituals for care. I don’t mean to imply that we have none, but rather I wish toxic masculinity, ableism, and white supremacy allowed for Black boys and men to receive wholehearted love and affection. Anyways. As early as I remember, I remember Black girls jumping rope. I was mesmerized as I would watch the girls in my neighborhood synchronize themselves with each swing of the rope. I always thought that Black girls care about each other. I loved the joy in their eyes as they went long stretches of time without messing up. Their interdependence and trust, meant that they could accomplish so much more than they could have done individually. These images remain in my mind as precious.
I’m writing on self-care and rest today. These words go together. At least for me. I started with this communal story in order to illustrate the idea that care and rest should also reflect community. Much has been written about self-care and how it has been utilized to sell expensive tools, vacations, and massages. Much of that critique I agree with as an American man. I have observed that much of self-care advice seems to mean utilizing money to escape the terrible realities around you.
It’s hard for me to rest when my family, my friends, and my neighbors are suffering. I don’t do well trying to play double dutch alone. I don’t say any of this to say that I don’t try and regularly nourish myself through massages, a splurge on coffee, or a new book. Instead, I mean that the more I care for myself, the more I am drawn to draw places for my loved ones where they have the finances and circumstances that I do. And. I look at the sheer number of atrocities worldwide, and as I refuse to look away, it is harder for me to rest. Guilt mingles with every massage as I consider those who don’t have a meal to eat tonight. Having a coffee with a friend feels a bit valid as children and parents are ripped from each other in the dehumanizing immigration system that we have in this country.
Perhaps, as I write this musing, I don’t have a clear vision of what it is I plan to do with the pain of caring for myself, loving myself, while the world suffers. Perhaps this musing is simply a clearing of my soul. Perhaps. Perhaps I will take this tension of resting and caring for my community by doing one intentional action to better people around me this week. All I know is that I can’t ever rest completely alone. Solitary but not alone.
*If my work has blessed you please share it with a friend. Or buymeacoffee*
Your words had me stepping away to reflect. On the tension of pouring into ourselves as the world burns too.
And in that reflective space, the thought that came was:
You may not be able to save the world, but you are a world worth saving.
You mentioning double Dutch brought back memories of my own as a kid and how every Black girl I went to elementary school just seemingly knew how to do it flawlessly. Legit Black girl magic.