LYING ON RUGS LOOKING UP

I’ve been lying on rugs a lot this past year. It’s the best way to ease my back whenever it starts to hurt. But it’s strange—no matter how long I lie on the rug, I almost never allow myself to relax.

I’m trying to unpack this.

At first, I didn’t even notice how my body felt unsafe while I was lying still and soft on the floor. At first I didn’t even notice how my body wasn’t really soft at all, but instead was taut and expectant, waiting for something to happen. As if the floor was dangerous, or as if my stillness was dangerous. I don’t think I’m alone in this uneasiness, this fear that stillness is uncomfortable, unbearable. This fear that if I am still, something terrible might happen.

Because here’s the thing: I want to lie on the rug. But I’m also scared to let myself lie on the rug. The rug feels like a metaphor for something else, something close to letting go. And I’ve never been very good at letting go of things.

But there are so many things that aren’t meant to be held, so many things that we cannot control. And perhaps lying on rugs can help me understand this, can help me understand and forgive myself for all the things I tried to control and to understand that weren’t mine to control or to understand, after all.

I don’t have answers. But I do have my rug and my body. And I am trying to be soft and tender with myself. I hope you can be soft and tender with yourself, as well. And perhaps when you get home from work tonight you can lie on the floor and allow yourself to look upwards and—even if only for a moment—allow yourself to let go.