Newsletter Archive: Restlessness and learning to hope again

Dear Reader,

While it’s the beginning of Spring and what I’ve always viewed as a time of renewal, to be honest, I’ve been restless.

For me, being restless is a close cousin to a feeling of anxiousness. It’s like being in my body and mind with no escape, in waiting. It’s quiet and sneaky, not as heavy as depression or loud as anxiety, but it’s ticking, counts time, progress, doesn’t allow me to relax, read, paint or do things that I enjoy. It makes it very difficult for me to be still. It doesn’t allow me to receive help or feel close to love, it keeps me distant from my feelings and emotions. I am acutely aware of its presence and know that something unnamed or unexpressed is budding and living inside of me.

What does restlessness feel like to you? Can restlessness be productive? Is restlessness a part of our lives to teach us something? 

But this morning I woke up at 2am and I naturally rolled onto my belly for the first time in almost 12 weeks (after having surgery on my right shoulder) and it didn’t hurt. I was so happy I cried and I stopped to thank God. I fell asleep quickly and awoke to juicy 6:30am sun shining through the shades of the room where I sleep.

With a roll onto my tummy and the morning sunlight I felt hope. When I’m restless I don’t feel hope. Frankly, I don’t feel much and this makes me sad because hope is something we owe ourselves. Hope is a deeper and more profound expression of the desires that linger, oftentimes silently, in our hearts.

How and where can you begin to hope again or hope more?

I don’t have the recipe for escaping restlessness, but I do know that when I’m restless my heart is closed, and my body and mind stay frozen in time; trapped in older emotions. Then those older emotions and older stories hang out inside of me like old journals stacked under a bed - words that need to be burned instead of slept on. Those stories keep me restless and available to past thought patterns that do not allow hope to bloom.

But Spring is the season where we bloom. Where we open. Right?
Well, sometimes, I guess?

One year ago today I was packing up my apartment and leaving for Mexico. I was on my way out of New York, out of my 13 year relationship with my apartment, and a life that no longer felt like my truth in many respects. And while this past year wasn’t quite what I imagined, I have found comfort in believing that God and the Universe have another plan for me. One that, even in my restless state, or despite it, I managed to find a bigger purpose for being alive, aside from adventure, travel, work, dating and falling in love. A deeper call to be patient with my family as they age, to be available, to add hope to their days. Redefining this love has given me purpose in my restlessness; recognizing the change in how I can love and want to show up in love and in life. I am forever grateful to my family. For us. For my aunt and uncle right now as I sit at their kitchen table and type.

It’s better to live your own destiny imperfectly, than to live an imitation of someone’s life with perfection. —The Bhagavad Gita

I sit here writing, in my imperfection and truth, to tell you that it’s ok to be restless and not understand where you are or why you feel what you do. Purpose and our real life, our true story, are often passing through us while we’re going through the restless moments.

Just about everyday I have taken a walk, and over the last few weeks I became somewhat fascinated with one tree. I took pictures of her daily, pondering growth and seasons, fascinated with her story. Meanwhile, just yesterday, I stood in front of my aunt and uncle’s yard admiring their camellia plants. I went inside, they were coupled on the couch watching golf, and I exclaimed “The plants in the front yard are blooming and they are so beautiful.” My aunt said she needed to take a look, and I took out my phone to show her a picture. She told me that camellias are supposed to bloom in December. I was shocked. I guess the conditions weren’t right for growth, so she had to wait. It’s now mid-April. Those camellias were on a 4.5 month delay, but in their own time they came out - beautiful as ever. 

In time I think our stories do become more beautiful. In the moment and in the middle of heartache, pain, wishing we were something else or somewhere else — there is restlessness — but one day, springing out of nowhere, peace, growth and clarity come, a homecoming that can only be described as peace. We can look at trees, flowers, children on swings, take a ride on a swing ourselves — we start to feel something as we walk through the world instead of walking through ourselves (over and over again).

Maybe that’s the recipe to hope an restlessness? Be in the world.

Cook a meal if you can. Ask for help. Asking for help in the last 12 weeks has humbled me; allowing me to realize that not only can I not do it all — but I don’t have to. In my restlessness I’ve cooked up somewhat of a storm for my aunt and uncle. I cooked a storm of love for them, even if I felt something different about myself inside. I got lost in the kitchen, even if I battled with restlessness and a knowing that my restless heart is exactly where I need to be right now. That’s my home, like it or not, and so is this body, loose with skin, story and triumph. My restlessness has been perfect, I think.

While Easter is upon us and it’s one of, if not, my favorite holiday, I will not be sharing the traditional recipes of my family right now. You can go back to my newsletter and recipe archive and read them if you wish. This week I’ll cook some of those very meals, dancing with my past and tradition — but for today this reflection and some photos are all I really want to pass on to all of you.

Springing With Love,
Tina