What I’ve learned about rest from my podcast
Five insights from our dreams of rest and retreat
I was part of The Poetry Detective’s Overwintering episode on BBC Radio 4 • I’m appearing in Margate at the Turner gallery’s first Winter Wellness festival on 30th January • I’ll be taking part in the Ceylon Literary Festival, 13th-15th February, in conversation with Helen Macdonald, and with Sukanya Wignaraja • Our next Book Club read will be The Sound of a Wild Snail Eating by Elisabeth Tova Bailey.
While I was developing my new podcast (find it here if you haven’t already), I worried that it would feel too soft for this point in our history. Asking guests to imagine their ideal retreat could easily feel irrelevant as the world around us becomes more violent and chaotic.
We tend to see rest as a luxury, something that we might be allowed in the good times, if we’ve worked hard enough. But to me, it’s a serious issue: a matter of restoring our health, protecting our psyche, nurturing the compassion and connection that is essential for our survival. In moments like this - when our care is pulled in a hundred different directions at once - it is vital that we learn to protect our energies.
As soon as I sat down with my first guest, I realised I needn’t have worried. Everyone so far has talked about the complexity of rest, the concerns that get in the way, and the challenges of moving from incessant busyness to stillness and calm. This, in turn, has deepened my own understanding of what rest means to us, and why it’s so vital.
As we approach our 10th episode, I want to share my five most important insights so far.
1. Rest is an anxious space
I have yet to speak to a single person for whom the idea of rest - even the imaginary kind - is uncomplicated. We feel guilty for needing it in the first place, and we’re extremely conscious of the disparity in access to rest, as well as the urgent work that needs to be done in the world. Cariad Lloyd spontaneously provided the most perfect introduction to these ideas in our first episode.
We’re also wary of our ability to leave work behind. We know ourselves too well: our minds never stop whirring, and in many ways our identities derive from what we do. Sam Baker expressed this beautifully: stopping can feel like a pretty uncomfortable process.
2. It’s not about sitting still
Yes, we all like and need the occasional sit-down, but most of us prefer to rest in motion. Laura Pashby and Oliver Burkeman dreamed of blustery walks in rugged landscapes, and every single guest so far has wanted to shift their attention toward doing something they loved (even if that’s simply reading). Rest is about a change in action, a chance to use our legs and our hands, and to sink our minds into something new.
Andy J Pizza exemplifies the art of restless rest. His lively, ADHD brain craves stimulation, and so he cooked up the ideal retreat venue for people who hate sitting still: Howl’s Moving Castle.
3. We’re over performative rest
In the media, rest is so often denoted by a bland stock image of a woman on a spa day, looking instantly relaxed, and of course, utterly put-together and elegant. Speaking to my guests, I realised that I’m not the only one who’s completely over this thin imitation of actual retreat. Performative rest doesn’t feel real to us anymore. We know we need more.
We actually dream of something a little more messy. Melissa Hemsley talked about the conflict she feels between the dream of solitude and the anxiety of being alone: in real life, we get spooked in remote cottages, however much we idealise them. Oliver Burkeman felt, on balance, that his life was already pretty good and he didn’t want to stray too far. Most people I spoke to just wanted to let it all hang out.
Rest is deeply personal, and we know how difficult it can be to attain it. We can no longer be sold a glossy ideal.
4. Rest is an archive
Despite the escapism many of us want, rest is profoundly connected to home. As my interviews stacked up, I began to see that we crave a return to a moment of perfect comfort, rather than something completely new.
This struck me most in Kaitlin Curtice’s episode, where she explored a mental image of great simplicity and stillness, with activities that were familiar and soothing. The yearning is to reconnect with something direct and easy, perhaps a time before life got so busy and responsibility-laden.
A sense of exile came up in many of the interviews. It is expressed most directly in the forthcoming Ece Temelkuran episode (out tomorrow!), in which she conjures an immersive, sensory landscape that reminds her of her Turkish home, to which she can’t currently return without risking political detention. But I was struck by the same feeling in my conversation with Martha Beck and Rowan Mangan. Martha dreamed of an island where people made sense; Rowan dreamed of slipping between the cracks in this world, to find a place that felt more like home.
Rest is a way of preserving an idea of home, either a physical place that feels lost to us, or a place we’ve forever longed for.
5. Whimsy matters
Through all the interviews, I’ve loved the sense of whimsy that so often arises. I’ve been taken to mossy treehouses, roaming steampunk castles, imaginary otherworlds, sea-battered lighthouses and cottages full of tame woodland animals. I’ve watched guests sink into their own dreamworlds, and seen them emerge energised and refreshed.
It strikes me now that whimsy is a vital tool for resisting the brutality and shallowness of modern life. It is not a childish thing, but a rich and mature resource, a means of everyday retreat and a way of nurturing all that is good in the real world. For all their fantastical details, my guests’ imaginary worlds were arks in which they kept their visions of hope, justice and gentleness.
They also pointed to a way in which we can all take a rest, any time.
You can listen to The Clearing for free in your favourite podcast app (find it here); or Paid subscribers to this newsletter get an ad-free version each week. You can also watch with subtitles on YouTube.
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As a TV producer who spent a career perfecting the art of distraction, I have finally realised I am a victim of my own industry.
Your point about rest being an anxious space is perfectly observed. "Rest" as an idea is drawn from the physical world, in which it's immediately pleasant. I am finding that's far from true for the mind.
I am currently on Day 19 of a 60 day experiment: total mental quiet on my commute from Surbiton. It feels laughable on a packed South West Train, but I am beginning to believe that mental quiet is a muscle that can be built through repetition. If my naughty dog's brain can be rewired by daily training, perhaps mine can too.
The idea of retreat has taken on new meaning here in the U.S. I happen to live in Chicago which has seen it's own occupation by the dark side and it's given me a small idea of what it must feel like to live in wartime. The anxiety and fear are ever present and real along with such immense sadness for all that's lost. I chided myself for that comparison at first but I don't anymore. Having been told I'm the enemy by the leader of my own country leaves a mark. Honestly, I'm afraid to travel internationally for fear of agents searching my social media and being detained. I can't believe I'm typing that, but anyway, I feel stuck for now.
I've explained all that to say that retreat for me has changed dramatically. I'm just hoping to cope at this stage and have made a list for myself of things I can do every day to help keep me sane and grounded. I haven't even done well with those yet but it's a process. It's beginning to feel non-negotiable. For now, two hours of not seeing any news or social media is retreat. Watching a series or movie set in a country I love that has more rights and peace than my own is retreat. Reading books set in similar countries is retreat. Doing either of those things when the setting is here but in better times is too painful at the moment because it truly feels like that's gone forever, but I hope one day I can go there again, in my mind, anyway. I dream of the West of Ireland, where I've walked the beaches and searched for holy wells in the hills with my dear Irish friend. I hold the stones and shells I collected there and dream of those times. For now, that is what retreat means to me.