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 itās an imperative (albeit a polite one). Rest.
š®
For as long as I remember, Iāve been productive. I care about doing things well, I fear laziness more than I crave relaxation, and I struggle to accept the concept of āenough.ā At least some of this is inheritedāa rejection of stillness braided into my DNA.
āI never saw my mother nap,ā my mom once told me, by way of explaining her own behavior. I donāt 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. Sheās one of the most artistically gifted people I know, and (at least in my opinion) sheās always approached art as a jobāwork 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 neighborsā dogs to Hank Williams.
My grandpa wasnāt shy about his achievementsāyouād 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 Readerās Digest.
After my grandparents both passed away, I found a newspaper article about my grandpaās 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 busyāhe was digging a ditch (at 83 years old!) when a water tank fell and killed him.
I took a photo of the clipping and sent it to my mom, unsure whether to feel sad or amused or surprised Iād never heard this story before. A little relieved, maybe, to see proof of our familyās pathos.
āHis downfall was his love of working.ā
š®
Iāve never loved working, but Iāve pinned my identity to itānot 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 weād be in Honolulu for a few months. I hadnāt 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. Iād work from before sunrise to early afternoon, then sign off to hike or swim in the ocean. I felt both swaddled and isolatedāthe 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 wasnāt a surprise, I hadnāt expected to be hollowed out, grieving everyone and everything Iād ever lost.
For a year and a half I kept working and hiking and swimming and realizing weād 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, heād be fine, and 15 minutes later, my mom told me she was moving to Arizona. Friends had babies; days didnāt stop; the future knocked the wind out of my lungs.
So, I made a spreadsheet called TRAVELING āļø THE WORLD š 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.
Weāre now in Puerto Escondido, on Mexicoās southern Pacific coast, where the sun is relentless, the streets are sandy, and the birds sound like sirens. Weāre surrounded by agitated dogs and a neighbor who listens exclusively to the Dixie Chicks, but at the same time, itās 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. Iām starting to forget what work feels like, and my mind is hustling to fill the void. Iām trying to embrace what comes, then let it go. I feel frivolous and curious and euphoric. When I remember, I try to stand still.
Itās not my nature to leave room for the unexpected, but I hope to surprise myself. I donāt know when Iāll start working again or what Iāll do, but I donāt ever want to be eulogized as the woman who loved to work.
š®
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 havenāt come up with a better alternative for reflecting on this adventure; Instagram rots my self-esteem, and I canāt remember my Xanga password.
So, I hope youāll follow along, and I hope at some point youāll 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 dayāa peaceful resting point and a reminder that you deserve it.
Yes, you! You deserve rest and so much more.
Oyasuminasai ~~
cocoon ā„ļø
Love this and love you š. We miss you in Hawaii!