🐛 of a silkworm, prior to molting

a reminder to rest

Yasumi means rest. It also means vacation, break, and, according to a questionable translation site, dormancy (of a silkworm prior to molting).

I first heard this word as a kid in the form of oyasuminasai. It floated around at bedtime, the way Japanese words occasionally did, and it only now occurs to me that it’s an imperative (albeit a polite one). Rest.

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For as long as I remember, I’ve been productive. I care about doing things well, I fear laziness more than I crave relaxation, and I struggle to accept the concept of “enough.” At least some of this is inherited—a rejection of stillness braided into my DNA.

“I never saw my mother nap,” my mom once told me, by way of explaining her own behavior. I don’t recall her ever being idle or taking time for herself; she was busy cooking meals and dropping them off to friends, or deep-cleaning the kitchen, or making intricate, beautiful jewelry to sell. She’s one of the most artistically gifted people I know, and (at least in my opinion) she’s always approached art as a job—work valued for its utility to others, not for what it expresses.

My mom takes after her dad, who toiled in his yard (and ours, and probably others) well into his 70s. For many years he and my grandma ran a small dry-cleaning business, which is grueling and unglamorous work, but he was also a multi-talented artist whose repertoire included department store displays, landscape architecture, and portraits of everyone from his neighbors’ dogs to Hank Williams.

My grandpa wasn’t shy about his achievements—you’d walk into his house and face a wall of his awards and honors, patent submissions for obscure inventions, a photo he took that somehow made it into Reader’s Digest.

After my grandparents both passed away, I found a newspaper article about my grandpa’s father, Yoshigoro. He left Japan to work on the sugar cane plantations in Hawaii, which he did for 47 years, until a heart attack forced him to retire. Even then, he kept busy—he was digging a ditch (at 83 years old!) when a water tank fell and killed him.

My grandpa, Fred, drew this portrait of his father and described him as the man who “couldn’t stand still”

I took a photo of the clipping and sent it to my mom, unsure whether to feel sad or amused or surprised I’d never heard this story before. A little relieved, maybe, to see proof of our family’s pathos.

“His downfall was his love of working.”

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I’ve never loved working, but I’ve pinned my identity to it—not any particular job, per se, but the idea of being a successful employee. Living in New York only deepened the sense that my value depended on the output of my time. It took COVID for me to question my priorities, and it took moving to Hawaii to imagine a different life.

About six months into the pandemic, Tucker and I broke our lease in Brooklyn and left unceremoniously, thinking we’d be in Honolulu for a few months. I hadn’t lived back at home since high school, and returning was surreal. Life felt double-exposed, with the present layered on top of hazy memories and teenage emotions.

The days in Hawaii were long and languid. I’d work from before sunrise to early afternoon, then sign off to hike or swim in the ocean. I felt both swaddled and isolated—the world felt far away and seemed to be fracturing while my life continued, mostly undisturbed.

Soon after moving home, my grandma became sicker, smaller, and increasingly frail. We buried her next to my grandpa under the shadow of Diamond Head and while her death wasn’t a surprise, I hadn’t expected to be hollowed out, grieving everyone and everything I’d ever lost.

For a year and a half I kept working and hiking and swimming and realizing we’d never go back to New York; Tucker and I got married; I turned 33. My dad called from the hospital, telling me not to worry about him, he’d be fine, and 15 minutes later, my mom told me she was moving to Arizona. Friends had babies; days didn’t stop; the future knocked the wind out of my lungs.

So, I made a spreadsheet called TRAVELING ✈️ THE WORLD 🌎 BABY!!!! and on April 1, 2022, I left my job of eight years. Tucker and I put our belongings in storage, packed two carry-ons, and got on a flight to Mexico City.

We’re now in Puerto Escondido, on Mexico’s southern Pacific coast, where the sun is relentless, the streets are sandy, and the birds sound like sirens. We’re surrounded by agitated dogs and a neighbor who listens exclusively to the Dixie Chicks, but at the same time, it’s easy to find a hammock and watch a blood-orange sunset while wrapped in a different kind of cocoon. I can feel myself rustling.

These first few weeks of travel have been chaotic and mystical, full of dust and mezcal and waves breaking right on the beach. I’m starting to forget what work feels like, and my mind is hustling to fill the void. I’m trying to embrace what comes, then let it go. I feel frivolous and curious and euphoric. When I remember, I try to stand still.

It’s not my nature to leave room for the unexpected, but I hope to surprise myself. I don’t know when I’ll start working again or what I’ll do, but I don’t ever want to be eulogized as the woman who loved to work.

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While starting a newsletter feels uncomfy, I want to answer the voice that asks who does she think she is and why would anyone read this with a smile and two middle fingers. Besides, I haven’t come up with a better alternative for reflecting on this adventure; Instagram rots my self-esteem, and I can’t remember my Xanga password.

So, I hope you’ll follow along, and I hope at some point you’ll feel moved to unclench your jaw and drop your shoulders and think about what freedom feels like. At the very least, I hope this newsletter will be a little break in your day—a peaceful resting point and a reminder that you deserve it.

Yes, you! You deserve rest and so much more.

Oyasuminasai ~~