Spiritual Rest: The Art of Doing Nothing

Sometimes life forces us to stop. Whether it's illness, heartbreak, or just the weight of everything finally catching up with us, there are moments when our bodies and spirits demand what our minds often resist: pause.

I'm writing this after spending four full days last week sleeping through COVID, and I'll be honest—it's taken me some time to see the gift in it. At first, I was frustrated. There were emails to answer, sessions to reschedule, plans to travel for a very important work event that I had to miss. But somewhere between day three and day five, something shifted. My body wasn't just fighting a virus; it was pushing me toward something I'd been needing: to be still.

The Resistance to Rest

In our go-go-go culture, rest feels almost rebellious. (So does staying up late watching tv instead of sleeping, if you think about it.) We've been conditioned to believe that productivity equals worth, that busyness is a badge of honor. Even in healing spaces, we can fall into the trap of spiritual productivity—how many meditations did you do today? How long was your gratitude practice? Are you journaling enough?

But what if the most spiritual thing we could do is nothing at all?

There's a beautiful concept in many wisdom traditions about spiritual rest. In Zen, they call it "just sitting." In Christianity, it's the Sabbath rest. Indigenous cultures have always understood the rhythm of seasons—times for action and times for stillness. Yet somehow, we've convinced ourselves that constant motion is not just normal, but necessary. And we might ignore that it's exhausting!

When Your Body Becomes Your Teacher

This past week or so, my body was my wisest teacher. It didn't negotiate with my to-do list or check my calendar before deciding I needed to rest. It simply said, "We're stopping now," and because of how fast I had been moving, trying to get everything in order for the event, I don't think I would have come to it on my own. Even though I did want to.

Sleep became meditation. Stillness became prayer. The forced pause became a doorway to something I'd been too busy to notice: the quiet voice within that had been trying to get my attention.

When we're constantly moving, we miss the subtle messages our bodies and spirits are sending us. The tension in our shoulders that's asking for attention. The heaviness in our chest that's processing old grief. The restlessness that might be calling us toward something new.

The Difference Between Rest and Restoration

There's rest—the kind we schedule between activities, the brief pause before we launch into the next thing. And then there's restoration—the deep, cellular renewal that happens when we truly surrender to stillness.

Restoration isn't just about catching up on sleep (though that's important too). It's about returning to ourselves. It's about remembering who we are beneath all the doing, all the striving, all the constant motion.

In restoration, we don't just recover our energy; we remember our essence.

Permission to Pause

Here's what I want you to know: You don't have to wait for illness to give yourself permission to pause. You don't need a crisis to justify rest. Your worth isn't determined by your productivity, and your spiritual practice doesn't have to be another item on your endless to-do list.

Sometimes the most radical thing we can do is nothing. Sometimes the most healing practice is simply being present with what is, without trying to fix or change or improve anything.

The earth teaches us this rhythm. Trees don't apologize for going dormant in winter. Rivers don't rush when they encounter rocks—they find a way to flow around them, sometimes creating the most beautiful pools in the process.

Creating Sacred Rhythms

One practice that has transformed my relationship with rest is honoring Monday as my day of restoration. Monday—Moon's Day—carries the energy of feeling, intuition, and receptivity. While the world rushes back into productivity after the weekend, I've learned to lean into Monday's natural invitation to slow down and tune in.

This isn't about being lazy or avoiding responsibility. It's about recognizing that our culture's obsession with "Monday motivation" and hitting the ground running is often at odds with what our spirits actually need. The moon teaches us about cycles—waxing and waning, expansion and contraction. Why shouldn't our weeks follow a similar rhythm?

On Mondays, I move slower. I check in with my body and emotions before checking my phone. I allow space for whatever feelings arose over the weekend to be processed. Sometimes this means journaling, sometimes it means extra sleep, sometimes it means just sitting with a cup of tea and watching the light change.

Some people give me a hard time about this. They don't like that I'm not available for emails or calls on Monday. I don't mind—in fact, I enjoy being satisfyingly out of step with the working world. A practice often makes more sense to me than a norm, and I believe "a case of the Mondays" is partly due to the moon's reflective energy.

I try to honor other planetary days too. Tuesday (Mars Day) is perfect for high-action tasks, while Wednesday (Mercury Day) is ideal for important communications. If you're curious about planetary influences on daily rhythms, the Planetaro app offers beautiful insights into these ancient connections, even down to the hours.

This practice has taught me that rest isn't just recovery from busyness—it's preparation for authentic engagement. When I honor Monday's invitation to feel and restore, the rest of my week flows from presence rather than pressure.

Practical Ways to Honor the Pause

If you're reading this and feeling the call to slow down, here are some gentle ways to honor that invitation:

Create micro-pauses throughout your day. Before you answer that email, take three breaths. Before you rush to the next appointment, sit in your car for a moment and check in with yourself.

Consider claiming your own "Moon's Day." It doesn't have to be Monday—choose whatever day feels right for you to move at a gentler pace and prioritize feeling over doing.

Practice saying no without explanation. You don't need to justify your need for rest. "I'm not available" or "I have a commitment" are complete sentences.

Notice where you feel rushed and ask why. What stories are you telling yourself about what happens if you slow down?

Trust your body's wisdom. If you're tired, rest. If you're overwhelmed, simplify. If you're grieving, grieve.

Remember that rest is not earned. You don't have to be productive enough to deserve restoration. You deserve it simply because you exist.

The Gift in Spiritual Rest

What I've learned from these past few days isn't just about the importance of rest—it's about the profound wisdom that emerges when we finally get still enough to listen. In the pause, we remember what matters. In the stillness, we reconnect with our deeper knowing. (Incidentally, I've also learned a lot about a fictional design firm in Atlanta called Sugarbaker's.)

The world will try to convince you that pausing is selfish, that rest is lazy, that stillness is unproductive. But I'm here to tell you that the spirituality of pause might be one of the most generous gifts you can give—not just to yourself, but to everyone whose life you touch.

When we pause, we stop contributing to the collective frenzy. When we rest, we model a different way of being. When we honor stillness, we create space for something sacred to emerge.

Your pause is not a problem to be solved. It's a doorway to be walked through.

And on the other side? A more authentic, more present, more connected version of yourself—one who knows the difference between movement and motion, between activity and aliveness.

So here's to the long pause. To the wisdom of rest. To the revolutionary act of doing nothing in a world that demands everything. Your stillness is not selfish. It's sacred.

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What is your relationship with pause? How does your body ask for rest, and how do you respond? I'd love to hear from you—share your thoughts in the comments or reach out directly. Remember, you're not alone in learning to honor the rhythm of rest and restoration.