If it didn't show, I haven't felt well all week long. Some of it has been physical--85 percent humidity kicked my allergies into high gear and flared up some serious headaches. There's also been an emotional component as I have been confronting my workaholism (which, yes, I've even found a way to graft onto housewifery) and excavating all the treasures and booby traps it's hiding. Today is Rest Day, which I've come to realize is a sad and sometimes angry day for me, as all the emotions I've been avoiding by doing all week are suddenly heard in the absence of the din. And it's such a bummer to be sad and cranky on Rest Day. I have these fantasies of familial bliss, loud laughter, children speaking in soft voices and a perma-smile on my face. But then Rest Day comes, and I'm more of a bear than on any other day. But that is what I do. I do; I don't feel. I do; I don't process or nurture myself or mend. The processing and mending sometimes looks like facing the sadness and anger head-on, like not running away to my to-do lists and tasks. It looks like being in the complexity of family, the noise of children, the conflict of marriage. Setting my idealism aside, at least one day a week, and being with what is. It kills me. And it assures me that I need Rest Day more than anything. It is an antidote to ego, ambition and drive. And some weeks I hate it.