Sunday #3: Rest Assured
The story goes that on the seventh day God rested. That's how the story goes!
I have often wondered about this, personally, as I am certainly no immortal being, but back in my thirties I would regularly work fifteen or twenty days in a row, so if I could do it...perhaps I have more core strength than God. Granted, I was not creating the world, but you try setting up, running, and breaking down a corporate catering event and then tell me there is much of a difference! I remember getting so tired that at some point I think my pain sensors just turned off--I became a task zombie, feeling nothing, but still doing the work.
Because of this bible story that makes no sense whatsoever, Sundays have, in recent history, been thought of as a "day of rest". Why Sundays, you might ask? Isn't Saturday the seventh day? Sunday is the first day! Whoops. Have we all been taking off the wrong day? They say that it was Constantine who changed the Sabbath from Saturday to Sunday, way back in the 4th century, as an expression of his conversion to Christianity, but this adds little to our understanding of the Sabbath and the reasoning behind it. Instead, it just adds fuel to the fire that the whole thing was made up as a way to establish power in the church. Call me crazy!
On a practical level of understanding, taking a day of rest one day a week makes total sense. We are, after all, only human. And humans are vulnerable to burn out, right? The thing is, there are many things you can do on a day of rest besides rest, as long as it is not "working". For instance, you might choose to bake a cake--how fun is that! You might also, I don't know, decide to gather with friends for lunch. You might climb a hill, or ride a bike, you might make love, or write a blog post. You get where I am going with this? Pretty much anything that is not under the category of "work" can be in the category of "rest"! (But don't confirm this with anyone who is Orthodox anything.)
Confused yet? So am I.
***
What defines work?
I like to work with plants outside--I got this from my father, who taught me how to respect and care for a yard and lawn. He was very skilled at it, and we had a beautiful yard when I was growing up, a yard that I eventually "took over" from him with his blessing. In fact, yard work was how I made spending money all through my teen years, tending not only to our own but also to the neighbors' lawns and gardens. Back then it was work because I made money at it, but I also enjoyed it.
Nowadays I am not required to do yard work but I do it anyway at the building I manage; it calms me to do tasks that I don't have to think about. It calms me. So is it work? Well, that depends on the task at hand. On Sundays, I usually don't do major yardwork, I just limit myself to a sweeping and watering. Regardless, it does not feel like work because: I have the option of doing it or not doing it; I don't make money doing it; and it is a task I set for myself, not one that is expected of me by another. But it is work of a sort because it takes effort and energy and time.
I am more confused.
Maybe this is why Jews play it safe and limit themselves to going to Synagogue and then sitting around the rest of the day. They don't want to walk the tightrope between work/not work. Sitting down all day equals not working. There is no gray area there.
Nowadays I have the privilege of choosing what I want to do on Sundays, even in the yard. I am, in that sense, extremely privileged, and I know it. I have worked for this privilege for many years, but hard work does not guarantee a Sunday of voluntary options for many people, and I know this. Some people work hard their whole lives and never get to the point where they can choose what to do on Sundays. Some people never even have that option available to them even with hard work. Fortunately, I am not one of them.
***
The Sunday I wrote this, I am choose not to work (though I did water outside early in the morning). I went to breakfast at Denny's with a good friend, believe it or not. I love me a big substantial breakfast on Sundays, and Denny's always delivers in that department if I am not cooking.
It is interesting to see who is at Denny's Hollywood on a Sunday morning at 830am. As I looked around, it seemed that there were families with young children, which makes sense. There were old men and women who come not just on Sundays for breakfast, but most likely every day. They probably get the same damn thing everytime, as this meal may be the only consistent part of their lives at this point.
I really hope that when I am old, I only go to Denny's for breakfast because I want to, not because I have to. To me the worst form of suffering is to have choices taken away.
I had a cracklin' skillet breakfast with potatoes, peppers, onions, and eggs. Just for the hell of it I ordered a side plate of two pancakes. I ate every last bite of both plates.
When we left the restaurant, we noticed a young hip-looking black woman walking through the parking lot, talking to herself. We figured that she was on a phone call, but I overheard some of what she said and it sounded like she was upset, and I started to suspect that she was not talking to anyone on the phone at all. She crossed in front of us as we left and were stopped at the light, and I caught her eye. She paused ever so briefly in the middle of the crosswalk, glared at me, and declared "You too, muthafucka!" I was in the dark as to what she was referring me to be a part of, but I quickly looked away in order to not further trigger her instability.
Welcome to Hollywood, where everyone is one or more of the following:
1. mentally ill
2. on legal or illegal drugs
3. angry
4. anxious
I have a hunch that our "crosswalk talker" was at least three out of the four categories. The rest of us in Los Angeles are most likely both #3 and #4 on any given day. So the line between sane and insane in this city is only one descriptor. Holy shit!
***
Sundays in Los Angeles are not about religion, unless you are extreme in your faith. Sundays are instead about brunch, it seems to me. I don't like to go to brunch at a restaurant, because I have yet to find a reason to wait in line for eggs. But many people do, and it helps if you have a tribe to wait with you. I do not have a tribe, though I would be happy to have one. Tribes seem easier for straight folk, as they have more options to bond them together: children, sports, family. Gay folk can have these options, but often don't. Even today. So we find our tribes in other gay folk if we can, and if they are available.
I reached out to my tribe on this Sunday because after breakfast I wanted to see the movie Judy, starring Renee Zellweger. I was ultimately joined by my friend Stephen, and we both thoroughly enjoyed the movie, if you can enjoy a movie about Judy Garland's last days. Since seeing this movie I have thought almost daily about Judy and what she endured at the hands of her mother, the studios, and her husbands, and it all seems so sad. I cannot watch The Wizard of Oz anymore and ignore what was happening to her at the time--forced diets, endless workdays, uppers and downers.
Old Hollywood has the sheen of being a "golden age", because that is what they were selling with the movies of the 30's and 40's: a lifestyle. I don't think they knew it at the time, but it was happening nonetheless. Today, many conservatives reference the "good old days", not realizing that they never happened. Oh sure, values were different sixty years ago, but only in that they prioritized appearance over reality. It mattered more what your family looked like from the outside than what it looked like from the inside. The reality is that in many families there was alcoholism, physical abuse, and infidelity.
Judy Garland's films showed none of this, even though she experienced all of them. They sold her as the "girl next door" as though that was an actual thing. If it was a thing, it was only a thing for straight men, because "innocence" was something to be conquered, not respected. Judy never had a healthy childhood; she was the somewhat unwilling promoter of a fantasy that she never lived.
***
For me, seeing a movie in the theater on Sunday is the ultimate expression of privilege and rest. I do it because I enjoy it, but I also do it because I can. I don't have to work. Like God, I have the luxury of taking the seventh day off. But rest assured that this is not something I take for granted.
I have often wondered about this, personally, as I am certainly no immortal being, but back in my thirties I would regularly work fifteen or twenty days in a row, so if I could do it...perhaps I have more core strength than God. Granted, I was not creating the world, but you try setting up, running, and breaking down a corporate catering event and then tell me there is much of a difference! I remember getting so tired that at some point I think my pain sensors just turned off--I became a task zombie, feeling nothing, but still doing the work.
Because of this bible story that makes no sense whatsoever, Sundays have, in recent history, been thought of as a "day of rest". Why Sundays, you might ask? Isn't Saturday the seventh day? Sunday is the first day! Whoops. Have we all been taking off the wrong day? They say that it was Constantine who changed the Sabbath from Saturday to Sunday, way back in the 4th century, as an expression of his conversion to Christianity, but this adds little to our understanding of the Sabbath and the reasoning behind it. Instead, it just adds fuel to the fire that the whole thing was made up as a way to establish power in the church. Call me crazy!
On a practical level of understanding, taking a day of rest one day a week makes total sense. We are, after all, only human. And humans are vulnerable to burn out, right? The thing is, there are many things you can do on a day of rest besides rest, as long as it is not "working". For instance, you might choose to bake a cake--how fun is that! You might also, I don't know, decide to gather with friends for lunch. You might climb a hill, or ride a bike, you might make love, or write a blog post. You get where I am going with this? Pretty much anything that is not under the category of "work" can be in the category of "rest"! (But don't confirm this with anyone who is Orthodox anything.)
Confused yet? So am I.
***
What defines work?
I like to work with plants outside--I got this from my father, who taught me how to respect and care for a yard and lawn. He was very skilled at it, and we had a beautiful yard when I was growing up, a yard that I eventually "took over" from him with his blessing. In fact, yard work was how I made spending money all through my teen years, tending not only to our own but also to the neighbors' lawns and gardens. Back then it was work because I made money at it, but I also enjoyed it.
Nowadays I am not required to do yard work but I do it anyway at the building I manage; it calms me to do tasks that I don't have to think about. It calms me. So is it work? Well, that depends on the task at hand. On Sundays, I usually don't do major yardwork, I just limit myself to a sweeping and watering. Regardless, it does not feel like work because: I have the option of doing it or not doing it; I don't make money doing it; and it is a task I set for myself, not one that is expected of me by another. But it is work of a sort because it takes effort and energy and time.
I am more confused.
Maybe this is why Jews play it safe and limit themselves to going to Synagogue and then sitting around the rest of the day. They don't want to walk the tightrope between work/not work. Sitting down all day equals not working. There is no gray area there.
Nowadays I have the privilege of choosing what I want to do on Sundays, even in the yard. I am, in that sense, extremely privileged, and I know it. I have worked for this privilege for many years, but hard work does not guarantee a Sunday of voluntary options for many people, and I know this. Some people work hard their whole lives and never get to the point where they can choose what to do on Sundays. Some people never even have that option available to them even with hard work. Fortunately, I am not one of them.
***
The Sunday I wrote this, I am choose not to work (though I did water outside early in the morning). I went to breakfast at Denny's with a good friend, believe it or not. I love me a big substantial breakfast on Sundays, and Denny's always delivers in that department if I am not cooking.
It is interesting to see who is at Denny's Hollywood on a Sunday morning at 830am. As I looked around, it seemed that there were families with young children, which makes sense. There were old men and women who come not just on Sundays for breakfast, but most likely every day. They probably get the same damn thing everytime, as this meal may be the only consistent part of their lives at this point.
I really hope that when I am old, I only go to Denny's for breakfast because I want to, not because I have to. To me the worst form of suffering is to have choices taken away.
I had a cracklin' skillet breakfast with potatoes, peppers, onions, and eggs. Just for the hell of it I ordered a side plate of two pancakes. I ate every last bite of both plates.
When we left the restaurant, we noticed a young hip-looking black woman walking through the parking lot, talking to herself. We figured that she was on a phone call, but I overheard some of what she said and it sounded like she was upset, and I started to suspect that she was not talking to anyone on the phone at all. She crossed in front of us as we left and were stopped at the light, and I caught her eye. She paused ever so briefly in the middle of the crosswalk, glared at me, and declared "You too, muthafucka!" I was in the dark as to what she was referring me to be a part of, but I quickly looked away in order to not further trigger her instability.
Welcome to Hollywood, where everyone is one or more of the following:
1. mentally ill
2. on legal or illegal drugs
3. angry
4. anxious
I have a hunch that our "crosswalk talker" was at least three out of the four categories. The rest of us in Los Angeles are most likely both #3 and #4 on any given day. So the line between sane and insane in this city is only one descriptor. Holy shit!
***
Sundays in Los Angeles are not about religion, unless you are extreme in your faith. Sundays are instead about brunch, it seems to me. I don't like to go to brunch at a restaurant, because I have yet to find a reason to wait in line for eggs. But many people do, and it helps if you have a tribe to wait with you. I do not have a tribe, though I would be happy to have one. Tribes seem easier for straight folk, as they have more options to bond them together: children, sports, family. Gay folk can have these options, but often don't. Even today. So we find our tribes in other gay folk if we can, and if they are available.
I reached out to my tribe on this Sunday because after breakfast I wanted to see the movie Judy, starring Renee Zellweger. I was ultimately joined by my friend Stephen, and we both thoroughly enjoyed the movie, if you can enjoy a movie about Judy Garland's last days. Since seeing this movie I have thought almost daily about Judy and what she endured at the hands of her mother, the studios, and her husbands, and it all seems so sad. I cannot watch The Wizard of Oz anymore and ignore what was happening to her at the time--forced diets, endless workdays, uppers and downers.
Old Hollywood has the sheen of being a "golden age", because that is what they were selling with the movies of the 30's and 40's: a lifestyle. I don't think they knew it at the time, but it was happening nonetheless. Today, many conservatives reference the "good old days", not realizing that they never happened. Oh sure, values were different sixty years ago, but only in that they prioritized appearance over reality. It mattered more what your family looked like from the outside than what it looked like from the inside. The reality is that in many families there was alcoholism, physical abuse, and infidelity.
Judy Garland's films showed none of this, even though she experienced all of them. They sold her as the "girl next door" as though that was an actual thing. If it was a thing, it was only a thing for straight men, because "innocence" was something to be conquered, not respected. Judy never had a healthy childhood; she was the somewhat unwilling promoter of a fantasy that she never lived.
***
For me, seeing a movie in the theater on Sunday is the ultimate expression of privilege and rest. I do it because I enjoy it, but I also do it because I can. I don't have to work. Like God, I have the luxury of taking the seventh day off. But rest assured that this is not something I take for granted.
Sensible man to take rest seriously.
ReplyDeleteThe drama personae of Hollywood sounds hellish, poor things.