A Moment to Rest

After a grueling twenty-day book tour—meeting wonderful people, shaking hands, taking photographs, and receiving thousands of hugs—I needed rest. Waking up in a different hotel, forgetting where you are in the middle of the night when you have to go to the bathroom, struggling with hotel room pillows (some too soft; others hard as a rock) takes its toll. I must admit that I have been running on fumes.

Fortunately, thanks to Errol and Paula Taylor, I have been able to spend the last week or so in Sag Harbor in one of its historic Black beach communities, Ninevah. Ninevah Beach was established in 1952 to give affluent and middle-class Black professionals a place to vacation. I was first introduced to the village in Colson Whitehead’s novel, Sag Harbor. And this week’s experience left me with details and scenes that filled my notepad. It is a lovely and complicated place.

Growing up in Mississippi, I knew nothing of the old whaling town and its stunning beauty or of the Black people who built homes there. As a child, my summer days in Moss Point were spent at home. We didn’t vacation. I didn’t go to camp. My parents had to work and, if it wasn’t too hot, I spent my days playing until the streetlights came on. Walking in the house smelling, as my mother used to say, like “outside.” The likes of Sag Harbor never entered my imagination.

This week has been a little slice of heaven, though. I haven’t watched much news. Trump entered my conversations only sporadically. Instead, I enjoyed the company of good friends. Relaxation had been gifted, and I took full advantage. I did two book events: one at The Church in downtown Sag and the other in East Hampton. Vastly different worlds. Both monied. But different. It didn’t matter. I needed to rest.

And that got me thinking. We all need to rest. I don’t mean that we need to disengage from the world. And I am not suggesting that we all have the capacity or the relationships to pack up for a week and spend time in a beach community in the Hamptons. But we all need some respite. Some means to replenish, because life is hard.

Americans spend so much time working. My dad spread out his vacation days over the entire year. Never took a week off. He just delivered mail day in and day out. My mother worked, too. Every afternoon, she finished cooking dinner for her family, gathered her things and the pink construction helmet, and made her way to Ingalls Shipyard to work the third shift. Only to return home after midnight. The rhythm of work dictating the substance of life.

In this country, it feels like rest is a luxury, and deep rest and relaxation the possession of the wealthy. (Maybe I am confusing rest with leisure here.)

But it doesn’t have to be so. The most enjoyable moments of this past week were found in the laughter as we sat and talked—in the company of friends. Being still. Being present. Being loved. It’s hard to do when the demands of work grind fingers to the bone.

Each of us must be deliberate, especially now, in creating and curating the space to rest and to replenish. That does not require beachfront property or a trip to Disneyland (the purchase of leisure), but rather, the creation of moments, however long or short, to put the demands of work aside and attend to the heart.

To be still. To be present. To love.