So one morning I’m racing to get to my massage/acupuncture appointment on time (I’ll just let that sentence sit there for a moment, so you can take in the pure absurdity of it), tapping my fingers impatiently on the wheel as I miss the first of five traffic lights between me and my therapist’s office. I’m not in the proper mindset for this at all but how exactly does one prepare for an hour of lymphatic cleansing and the rebalancing of one’s qi? Should I arrive all chill and relaxed? She’d have nothing to do. It’s like brushing your teeth before you go to the dentist (which I do, religiously, including a double-round of flossing). I arrive all keyed up and unsettled. Now we’re talking noticeable impact when that hour’s done, right?

I’m glad you’ve stayed with me this far.

I’ve been taking massages regularly for the past 20-some years (not counting a pause during the first few months of the pandemic) and credit much of my energy, outlook and general good health to that discipline. I added acupuncture to the menu once my massage therapist completed her training and licensure in that practice several years ago (Patrick tried it first, my little canary in the coalmine) and could go on for days about the difference it’s made. Those bi-weekly treatments are the reason I’m fairly tolerable as a wife, friend and party guest. But it’s not a magic trick. Like any good healthy lifestyle component, I’ve got to pony up some effort to the equation and keep my eye on the desired outcome. Driving pell-mell through our rural area into a small-ish town’s morning rush hour traffic (that means two dozen cars and a solid handful of trucks) on the way to a place that promotes and encourages calm isn’t helping. Thankfully, Nicole knows me well enough now to reassure me that I won’t cancel out the good work she’s about to do for my muscles and that high-functioning lymphatic system of mine. I settle in on the table, exhale and disappear into her skilled kneading, looking forward to the thin needle she’ll insert in the space between my eyebrows and know that whatever was ailing me will be remedied soon.

At the risk of prying, how much time do you spend at rest? On average, and not counting sleeping? What does inertia look like for you? I’ve taken to noticing lately just how constantly in motion my life is, wondering how it got that way and how I’d cope if it came to a screeching halt. Most days I wake up refreshed and ready for what the day is offering, see my energy levels dip a bit after lunch and then rally about thirty minutes before the commute home. Once there, I shed the work clothes and slip into something more “farm work comfortable” before heading out to the garden or down to the chicken coop for egg-gathering. Along the way, there are downed branches and sticks to collect and carry over to the burn pile just north of the barn, and as I pass ransom piles of this and that, I make a mental note of projects waiting for the dryer days of mid-summer. I swear, we’ll get the rest of the antiques out of that barn and into good homes, somehow and finally, finally turn that old wooden headboard we trash-picked into a lovely sitting bench under one of the meadow’s finest and shadiest mulberry trees. Back in the house, in a laundry basket next to the washing machine, is a jute hammock I bought when I was in Nicaragua and it’s never seen the light of day in the thirty-four years since then. If I did put it up between the two black walnuts down by the creek, would I even take an afternoon to recline in it? Only one way to find out.

I dance in the tension between a life with ample moving parts and a desire to settle in for a nap with no expiration date stamped on it. I don’t recall feeling that when we lived in the city/suburbs. Lawn care was easier, we didn’t even think about having chickens and our trees at the time held onto their branches. What is it about the open space of a meadow or the secrets of a black swamp woods that shift our agendas over to a never-ending list of chores that are truly anything but? I welcome the sweet aches that follow a morning’s work planting tomato starts and mulching around their tender green ankles, then putting the fence around the raised bed to deter any ambitious rabbits or climbing groundhogs. On the days when I do wake up earlier than I’d like, the morning walk always—always—sets me straight, erasing the temptation to climb back into bed and snuggle down further beneath the blankets. I’m vertical, the sun is pulling on the day and if not now, when? I’ll sleep when I’m dead.

Stillness in our lives is elusive or fleeting at best, and I’m learning to be fine with that. During the week, I sit in on meetings where my clinical teammates—hospice nurses, social workers, chaplains, aides—provide details about the people in their tender care who are bedbound, unable to assemble a complete sentence that makes sense and eat mechanically pureed food, if that. Their weight is barely in the triple digits while my lunch waits patiently chilled in the stockroom fridge, all three containers of it. Sure, I could stand to lose some pounds and would feel better if I did, but I’m not as hell-bent anymore on reaching a goal and posting the results on Facebook. The bathroom scale sits still most days, episodically employed like a consultant. We take its digital data under advisement but haven’t changed our policies and procedures just yet. As dinner winds down to the last few peas on our plates, we tend to a little scrolling to make sure we’re not missing any of the Big News and then call it a night. We do sleep, of course, but our bodies are still at it, making repairs at a cellular level, moving toxins through our livers into our bowels and bladders while our minds unspool the most vivid and unrelated images from our daytime interactions with others: the quick glance at a candy apple red Corvette that whizzed past us on the way home, a song hummed by a coworker as we passed each other in the hallway and the blurry silhouette of a raccoon bumpitty-bumping its way toward the compost pile. How all those become knitted together behind our eyelids is still a lovely mystery I have no intention of solving.

Once every two weeks, I get to lie down on a warm table under a cool sheet and give my very bones over to a settling down that has ripple effects for the days that follow. Maybe that’s all I need for now. If anything changes, I’ll let you know.