House of Hazel Newsletter: Stamina and Rest

August 2, 2020

Even before I decided to take last week's break, I was thinking a lot about concepts of stamina and sustainability. For many of us, this whole year has felt like a gauntlet of sorts. Sometimes the challenge has been to see how many unexpected hurdles we can leap over without tripping. Sometimes the challenge has been in testing how many times we can get back up. Endurance is often framed as a physical push, an ability to resist gravity's tug towards Earth. To see how long and how far we can go before our humanness prevails and rest imposes its required "limits."

Within the same week that I went back to work in July, all three of my longtime housemates moved out for various (positive) reasons and I moved into a different room in the house. In terms of stamina, this house has remained steadfast in its ability to be a home for so many. This house has been an intentional Queer home for over a decade and its stamina and sustainability as such has been maintained through conscientious care of community and, yes, a respect for the physical space.  Earlier this month, I was exploring the concept of the stamina of *things.* As my housemates packed and I cleaned, we were repeatedly faced with the question, "Does this item still serve a purpose here?" The question was not whether or not the item sparked joy. It was more an assessment of whether the item was still a part of our lives. Had the item's stamina in our lives come to a close? In the same way, this home had come to the end of its current purpose for my housemates. Their lives had shifted and thus the role of the house in their lives had shifted.

After everyone moved out, I went through cabinets, drawers, and closets, looking at what had accumulated. I collected twelve bags and bins of items to be donated. I took a box of free pantry items to Fulton St. I repainted a bedroom. I refinished the kitchen counter. I vacuumed. I sanded. I conditioned wood floors. I moved furniture. I wanted to greet the new housemates with a living space that felt safe in its manicured upkeep and fresh with stamina to meet their needs. I could tell I was beyond exhaustion but I was set on creating a serene and tidy home, a space that reflected the life and world I desired. If I refused to give in to the gravity of rest I could override the idea that my desire was perhaps unsustainable. To dream of a home that has been made weightless in its freshly painted serenity says more about my own unintentional faith in productivity than it does about the magic of primer.

After all of that work, I woke up last Monday with a swift and severe cold. High fever, chills, aches, sore throat, and debilitating exhaustion knocked me flat. Rather than playing hostess to each new housemate upon their arrival, I texted them from my room, too tired to move but also fearful and embarrassed. This is a scary time to be sick. This is a scary time to move in with strangers. This is a scary time to move in with a stranger who is very sick. Instead of presenting the image of the longtime house matriarch with a system of house efficiency, I felt like the liability, presenting the greatest risk to our new home. I also had to ask for help. 

Friends brought me soup, tea, medicine, juice, and sweet company on the front stoop. One friend met me at CityMD at 7:30am because I was scared to go alone. I am usually stubbornly independent, almost secretive in my insistence to do things without help. Last week I was required to recognize that that solo business is not sustainable and it is not in service to the stamina of self or community. This is not meant as some humble brag about how I worked myself so hard I got sick. This isn't even intended as a 12-step share on the dangers of workaholism. What I'm really getting at is that stamina is not the same as productivity, capitalism's neo-wellness disguise. If I push beyond my limits, especially if I am draining myself in service to tasks that are essentially ego-based, I can only hope that my body will stop me. Force me to rest. Require my ego to take a nap and, most importantly, accept help. Operating outside of my limits serves no one: not my community, not my home, not my self. This home has thrived over the years because of collective contributions of life, labor, and care, not because of one person's dogged attempts. After a week's rest and much care from my community, I feel healthy and strong again. I thank you all for understanding when I needed to take a break. 

There is no glory in hoarding the reigns of work. Our sustainability is connected to our stamina, but only when that stamina honors rest and collective effort. Endurance need not be a battle against gravity but rather an exploration of how deeply we care for ourselves and each other. How long, how well, how completely can we rest in order to reach our full potential as individuals and as community? How can we recognize when it is our responsibility to be still and that it is the collective's honor to assist? 

Tend to your communities, my loves. Tend to yourselves. Rest. 

With love, 

beccalove