Sacred Rest

Do you think buildings get tired? I do. When I was working at Starbucks, I was the closing shift supervisor. I would show up at noon, five days out of the week, just to start the long slow process of closing the store down in seven hours. Every night, as I locked the doors and turned off the lights, I could hear the building groan. It was never closed, never had a day off. The wear and tear of constant use was obvious, but I always thought there was a spiritual element to the exhaustion.

It made me so mad sometimes. I would arrive in the parking lot and mentally scream “If you just never opened, I would never have to close you!” It’s an odd—and obvious—thing to say, but my whole job was just to clean things I had cleaned yesterday. And they never would have gotten dirty if the store had JUST STAYED CLOSED.

So anyway, that’s why I quit.

Life on the road can also be hard and exhausting, but in a different way. Everything is new and exciting, and there’s so much to see that I have a hard time slowing down. For about a month I jumped from place to place, surfing on a tidal wave of thrilling adventures and nearly avoided catastrophes. I didn’t realize the toll it was having on me until I arrived in Burro Bridge campground in southwestern Colorado. I was running away from the heat of the desert and had a few days to kill on my route up to Fort Collins. I pulled into a spot and met the campground host, a weathered old woman named Picket. She waved me out of the spot I had chosen and said, “Oh no, not here. You want to stay in site 11. It’s exactly what you need.”

She was right. Always listen to the wizened old women you meet in the woods.

Site 11 was tucked up at the top of the loop, secluded from other sites and walled in by the San Juan National Forest. It was large enough for my tent, hammock, and full camp kitchen and I had it all to myself for the next two days. I spent hours dozing, cooking, and crying over the ending of a book I was finally able to finish. I pulled out a deck of cards and played several rounds of my favorite version of solitaire which takes up a whole table. I went on a hike that Picket suggested, sweating and struggling through a forest of aspens to end up in a secluded mountain meadow. I danced around with my shirt off because I was hot and knew I wouldn’t be disturbed. I luxuriated in the rest of site 11 and the glorious feeling of being still.

Judaism is well known for its sacred practice of rest. The Torah describes how God created the world in six days, and on the seventh He rested. Later, God rescues the people of Israel from slavery in Egypt. Shabbat is a 25-hour period of rest where, from sundown Friday to full dark Saturday, Jews rest, eat, and celebrate together. Jewish liturgy and songs portray Shabbat as a day of joy and a sanctuary from the struggles of life. It serves as a weekly reminder of personal autonomy and freedom from the harsh demands of labor.

Our American culture instead celebrates 24-hour commodities. Just up the street from my Starbucks there was a 24/7 Starbucks. It was NEVER empty. The machines were constantly in use. The floors were never truly clean. The building sagged with fatigue.

When snow crippled the Seattle area in the winter of 2019, all us baristas still had to show up to work. I walked two miles through six inches of slush so that Google executives could take the day off work to drink hot chocolate. We didn’t get supply deliveries for days and had to buy milk from the grocery store across the parking lot. Milk that actual people needed to buy. Our trash didn’t get picked up for over a week and we lined the back of house and filled a whole room with giant bags of milk cartons and latte cups. I couldn’t buy groceries because all the stores sent their employees home early long before I got off work. All this because American capitalism culture refuses to treat rest as sacred.

When I quit, I swore I would never be trapped into that system again. But it finds a way to creep in. Unconsciously I was emulating that hectic pace with my constant demand to be somewhere new and do something exciting. Site 11 in Burro Bridge was just a campsite in the middle of the mountains, but I made it sacred through my practice of rest. I slowed down and honored the space and myself by taking time to wash my hair in a bucket, take a nap in my hammock, climb a hill on a suggestion.

Sacred rest restored dignity to myself and my space. Site 11 didn’t seem to be groaning with fatigue. It was inviting and hospitable, filled with promise. I hope someday we decide as a culture to embrace the promise of Shabbat and return dignity to every over-tired Starbucks building in America.