What's left of your heart?

I wish i knew how to rest. I used to. I used to be able to sit down for hours on end, reading and imaginging myself in another world. The phone would ring and i wouldn't even know it. The book went with me for lunch and dinner. My reading time was my resting time where i could let go and simply be. I used to lay on the bed, swept away in daydreams where there was always someone who loved me- daydreams that involved hugs, cuddles and kisses. I would lie there with my eyes closed and feel a little piece of my heart crack as i remembered that there was no one to hold on to. I gave in to my emotions and let everything be. I used to sit in front of the telly and be enveloped in everyone else's life, hour after hour. There was no thinking invloved. I would fall asleep while Frasier was on, wake up an hour later and be mad at myself for yet another ending that went unknown.

Now, i have a life that is everything i have ever dreamed of but in the process of transitioning, i have forgotten what rest means. It takes me months to finish a novel because reading has become a luxury i cannot afford. I can barely make myself sit through anything on television that's more than 30 minutes long. No more cross-stitching. No more walks and runs that are done for the pure pleasure of feeling my legs move. No more anything that quiets my soul and lets my body and spirit heal.

I want to learn again.

Today, as i sit here writing this, Chris Tomlin's Indescribable comes on the radio and the wind that sweeps through my room is coolish and pleasant. For just one moment, i am resting in rightness. Not thinking about the past or worrying about the furture, which i seem to be doing a lot of recently. Just resting. I think about lunch with Jon, where i don't have to think or do anything but just sit and be held. One hour of pure bliss in the sunshine.

Then i see the mountainload of work on my table, think about the ten million things i have to do in the next month, start worrying about job applications and whether an hour is enough to prepare dinner tonight, about the drive tomorrow and oh, just about everything else. I realise my rest is over.

But maybe it starts with one moment. Two minutes of rightness. Thirty minutes of head on shoulder. And then maybe, one day i will find myself curled up on a couch, completley enamoured by a book, with no regard for time.
Seven hours of fiction. Seven hours of resting.