Learning To Rest

Learning to Rest: The Power of a Small Habit

I was walking the other day along the old trail behind my cabin when I noticed something I’d overlooked for years. A single maple leaf, perfectly intact, had settled on the surface of a still, dark pool. It didn’t drift or struggle. It simply rested there, held by the water’s quiet embrace, while the forest around it hummed with life—birds calling, insects buzzing, the slow drip of sap from a pine. It struck me then: rest isn’t passive. It’s a deep, active alignment with the rhythm of things. And that’s what I’ve been learning to do, one small, deliberate pause at a time.

For twenty years, I was a park ranger in the mountains, moving through the seasons like a metronome—checking fire lines in summer, tracking elk in winter, leading tours in spring. I wore my busyness like a badge of honor. Then came the divorce, the empty cabin, and the terrifying quiet. I thought I’d finally earned the right to do—to fill every hour with purpose. But the silence became a roar. I’d sit at my desk, staring at the same sentence for an hour, my mind a tangled knot of unfinished tasks. That’s when I realized: I’d never truly learned to rest. I’d only ever stopped.

Nature teaches us this lesson gently, if we’re willing to slow down enough to hear it. I’ve watched deer stand motionless for hours, ears swiveling, eyes wide open, not because they’re idle, but because they’re attuned. They’re resting into the world, not away from it. That’s the shift I needed to make.

Why "Rest" Isn’t What You Think

Most of us picture rest as a luxury—a weekend getaway, a spa day, or the rare moment when the inbox is empty. But true rest, the kind that rewires our nervous system, isn’t about doing nothing. It’s about being present without the pressure to do more. It’s the difference between collapsing on the couch after a long day (which often leaves us more drained) and deliberately choosing stillness.

I remember my first real attempt at this habit. I was sitting on my porch at 4:15 p.m., the golden hour softening the edges of the pines. I’d just finished a grueling phone call with a contractor about my cabin’s leaky roof. My shoulders were knotted, my mind racing with "what-ifs." I decided to try the 10-minute practice. I sat on the weathered wooden bench, closed my eyes, and focused on my breath. Inhale… two… three… exhale… two… three… For the first 90 seconds, my mind was a hurricane: Did I pay the electric bill? Is the roof worse than I thought? Why did I say that to Sarah? But then, something shifted. I noticed the scent of damp earth after a recent rain. I felt the cool evening air on my cheek. I heard a woodpecker hammering a rhythm in the distance. The storm in my head began to quiet, not because I stopped thinking, but because I let the thoughts pass like clouds across the sky. When the timer chimed, I felt… lighter. Not magically fixed, but available.

This isn’t just me being poetic. Neuroscience confirms it: consistent micro-pauses reduce cortisol, lower blood pressure, and improve cognitive function. But I don’t need a study to tell me it works. I’ve seen it in the way I now notice the exact shade of blue in a jay’s wing when I’m walking, or how my daughter’s voice sounds when she calls me "Mom" without the usual rush. Rest isn’t the absence of life; it’s the presence of life, fully felt.

Building Your Rest Habit: Practical Steps (No Fluff)

The beauty of this practice is its simplicity. But simplicity doesn’t mean it’s easy. Here’s how I’ve made it stick, step by step:

1. Anchor it to an existing habit: Don’t try to add rest to your day. Attach it to something you already do. I pair my 10 minutes with my morning coffee. I pour the coffee, sit in my favorite chair by the window, and only then take my first sip. The coffee is the trigger. You could tie it to brushing your teeth, waiting for your computer to boot, or even the moment you sit down to eat lunch. Anchor it to the rhythm you already know.

2. Start absurdly small: 10 minutes is the minimum. If you can’t do 10, do 3. Sit for 3 minutes. Close your eyes. Breathe. That’s it. The goal isn’t duration; it’s consistency. I’ve had days when I only managed 90 seconds because my cat jumped on my lap. I still call it a win. Small is sustainable. Sustainable is powerful.

3. Create a "rest space" (no tech allowed): This isn’t about a fancy meditation cushion. It’s about claiming a spot where rest is the only thing allowed. For me, it’s the worn armchair by the window, facing the woods. I keep my phone in another room. No emails, no news, no "just one quick check." If you’re at work, it’s the quiet corner of the break room, or even just closing your eyes for a minute at your desk. The space doesn’t have to be perfect—just yours.

4. Embrace the "wandering mind" (it’s normal!): Your mind will wander. It’s not a failure. When I notice my thoughts drifting to work, I gently say, "Ah, there’s the work mind," and return to my breath. I don’t judge myself. I’ve learned that the act of noticing and returning is the practice itself. It’s like training a puppy—every time you gently guide it back, it gets stronger.

The Hidden Resistance: Why We Avoid Rest (And How to Overcome It)

Here’s the truth I had to face: I resisted rest because I’d equated it with failure. As a ranger, I’d been taught that "a watched pot never boils" – meaning, if you’re not actively doing, you’re not being effective. But the forest doesn’t work that way. A tree doesn’t "do" to grow; it is in the soil, the rain, the sun. It rests in its own way, and it grows.

This resistance shows up in many ways:

"I don’t have time." Reality: You have 10 minutes. You choose to spend it on email or scrolling. Rest is the opposite of "not having time." It’s making* time for what truly matters. Try scheduling it like a meeting with your future self. Block it in your calendar. "10:00 AM: Rest (no exceptions)." "I feel guilty." Reality: Guilt is a sign you’ve internalized the myth that rest is lazy. Ask yourself: Would I feel guilty if a deer rested for 10 minutes? (No.) Would I feel guilty if a seed rested before it sprouted? (No.) Rest is part of the natural cycle. Your guilt is a habit, not a truth.* "I’m not doing it right." Reality: There’s no "right" way. If you’re breathing, you’re doing it. If you’re sitting quietly, you’re doing it. If you’re lying on the grass watching clouds, you’re doing it. The practice isn’t about perfection; it’s about presence.*

Common Pitfalls (And How I’ve Fallen Into Them)

I’ve made all the mistakes. Here’s what to watch for:

Making it "productive": I once tried to "rest" while listening to a podcast about mindfulness. Big mistake. Rest isn’t a productivity hack. It’s the opposite of that. It’s not about gaining something; it’s about receiving something. If you’re using rest to "fix" your stress, you’re still doing. True rest is not trying to get somewhere. It’s just being here, now. Let the podcast go. Just breathe.* Overcomplicating it: I bought a fancy "rest app" that guided me through breathing exercises. It felt like a chore. Rest should feel like sinking into a warm bath, not solving a puzzle. Keep it simple. Breathe. Notice the air. That’s it.* Expecting instant results: I thought after one week, I’d be calm and focused. Instead, I felt more frustrated. Rest is a slow, deep root system, not a quick bloom. It’s about showing up, day after day, even when it feels pointless. The change happens in the repetition*, not the single moment.

The Ripple Effect: How Small Rest Changes Everything

This habit isn’t just about feeling calmer for 10 minutes. It’s about changing how you move through the world. Here’s what I’ve noticed:

My patience with others deepened. When I’m not frantically trying to "do" everything, I can actually hear my daughter when she talks about her day. I don’t interrupt. I don’t rush her. I’m present*. My creativity returned. I started writing poems again—short, simple ones about the light on the creek, the way a spider’s web holds dew. I’d never had the mental space for it before. Rest isn’t empty; it’s full* of possibility. I stopped chasing "more." I used to think I needed a bigger house, a better job, more things. Now, I notice the beauty in the small things: the way the light hits the dust motes in the afternoon, the sound of my own breath. More isn’t the goal. Enough* is.

There’s something about how the forest teaches us this: a single tree doesn’t grow by trying to be bigger. It grows by being the tree it is, in the soil it’s in, with the rain it receives. It doesn’t rush. It doesn’t compare. It simply rests into its own rhythm. And in that rest, it thrives.

So today, I invite you to try it. Not to fix anything. Not to become someone else. Just to rest—for 10 minutes, or 3, or even 90 seconds. Sit. Breathe. Notice the air on your skin. Let the world keep moving around you, while you simply are. You don’t need to earn this rest. You don’t need to be "good" at it. You just need to show up. The forest has been waiting for you to join its quiet rhythm all along.

— Ellen Ferguson, patient as the land

— Gertrude Carroll, finding wonder in the ordinary