Ah, the Quality of Rest.
I live in a city that breathes forward motion. It strains and jostles and toils.
The the stoic 66 Bus never fails to stop ever so frequently under my window and spit people out, only to inhale more and dash off as soon as the last traveler’s foot is on board. Even in the small hours of the night I wake up to its hoarse creaking and tired huffing as it accomplishes its tasks unendingly.
No matter how much I look for it, this city refuses to give me counsel concerning Rest. And though it persistently tries to, I won’t let it persuade me into its way of life in that respect. I’ll rest rebelliously, on a bench in a park with a book of tall tales, and wander (quite aimlessly) down destinationless streets just for the Sake of Exploration. Then I’ll rest my weary mind and let it wander into dear bygone memories, or to places that will become memories in the future. Better yet, I’ll rest my restless soul by allowing it to bask in the glory of the moment and the grace of a lifetime.
Yes, my city is vast and old and experienced, and heaven knows I love it. But sometimes I just want to sit it down on a front porch facing a brilliant sunset, hand it a warm cup of tea and tell it to Rest.