A Rest From Labour? No Gathering This Weekend…

Sep 3, 2023

Hey folks – as I expect you all know (although I was in a store today where an employee had no idea), it’s the Labour Day long weekend, a national holiday that unofficially marks the end of summer and the return to school. Officially, for unions and labour activists, it’s a day to celebrate the accomplishments of the labour movement and the benefits of having a union at work. The history of the holiday is rather complicated. I won’t get into it here, but the very short version is that it’s rooted in the struggle of working people and the demand for fairness which was initially met with a callous and violent response before evolving into the holiday we are now familiar with.

All that to say two things in our context:

1. We’re not meeting this Sunday. It’s the last of the summer long weekends, and my hope is that as we are able we will seek out ways to rest and be renewed, even if those initiatives don’t appear to be especially significant.

2. This feels timely in the sense that there’s an easily discerned connection between a holiday of this sort and many of the thoughts about rest that we’ve been exploring. With that in mind, I wanted to offer a poem from Tricia Hersey on the topic of sacred rest. If you have no other opportunity to dial down this weekend, perhaps take a few quiet minutes with this. It’s full of a wide array of images and metaphors for rest. Which one(s) resonate for you?

Rest is real-life conversations.
I don’t know any other way
to go.
Rest is the road map.
The guiding force – a truth teller.
Rest is a meeting with self.
With a typed agenda.
Rest is on your knees whispering words silently,
on the right side of the bed.
Rest is lunchtime dreaming.
The energy of the Rastafarian who showed me how to
pray standing up,
with my eyes open
hands stretched wide.
“Because how will you see and know when prayers are
answered?”
Rest is holy oil
from my mama’s wooden dresser.
Pompeian Olive Oil, the fancy kind in glass.
Blessed by the Elders.
Poured over our heads as we rebuke the devil.
Rest is the laying on of hands.
A force field all around you.
Rest is a dream made real.
A portal.
An honest place.
A trusting place.
A sacred refuge.
A dissertation-length longing.
Rest works.
Rest dreams.
Infinite power moving.
Care surrounding us.
Rest is a gift and an antenna.
An ancient call dangling on the tips of tongues,
from a head lightly connected on a silk pillow.
Rest is holding us close.
Rest is home.
I’ll see you next Sunday.
Peace,
Tim Plett
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