In Praise of Slowness

What I have called “slow” for a long time, I am learning now that it is just being in sync with the natural rhythms of my body and of my mind. 

On slow days, I wake up to the light of the sun coming through my window, to the birdsongs announcing the new day. I open my eyes and they get filled with color and textures of what I can see and perceive. I may spend some time recalling a dream before I start thinking about the day ahead. 

I stretch my legs first. Then when I place my feet on the floor, I am grateful for the the life force within that allows me to move. I put on my jogger pants, my walking t-shirt and my walking shoes. If I go to the usual park, which most times I do, I know I will see the group of walkers that starts an hour before me. We recognize each other and cheer each other on. I will walk by the big old tree trunk where there used to be rocks stacked and will resist the temptation to stack my own rocks. I consider it and then simply walk past the trunk. Stacking rocks is now a ritual I reserve for my walking group, but not when I’m alone. 

The Tai Chi Master will be under the gazebo either waiting for a student or training a student. Then, I walk around the side of the lake and down into the next part of the park where, past the open field, at the next parking lot, the security guard will ask me again for my friends. And past the baseball field, where the older man is stretching his legs, I’ll come across the couple that will also remind me that I’m alone this time. At some point, I come across Daisy and her human, Eric, and she’ll jump on me and greet me before we part ways again. I may see the Buddhist monk walking fast with a dumbbell in his hand. And once I make it back to the lake, I’ll see the same older man that was stretching his legs now walking around the lake and a group of people practicing Tai Chi practicing with music. Their movements are gentle and beautiful. 

If an unexpected emotion shows up in me, a plant or tree will call me to get a leave or a small branch for soothing: eucalyptus, California sagebrush, rosemary.

Finally, I’ll arrive at the bench right in front of the lake, resting now in the company of ducks, geese, and, if I’m lucky, a heron, and a raven. I’ll spend a few minutes connecting with my breath, contemplate the beauty of the lake, before heading back home. 

Slow days are empty days on my calendar; no plans, no appointments, no commitments, only the possibility to be guided by the rhythms of my body and my spirit. 

Slowing down is presence and attention. If I'm not rushed by the next thing on my calendar, I can choose what to do and how to respond to what is there before me. I can be fully present to the beings around me.

Slowing down is softness in a world that demands so much from us. It's a reclaiming of our right to move at our own rhythm. It's moving with gentleness, without demanding from ourselves more than what we can give.

Slowing down is a celebration of life and an invitation to savor every moment without wishing for the next moment, or the next day. It is sensual.

Slowing down is reclaiming our power to choose how to give ourselves to this journey of life.

Slowing down is moving in beauty, in power, in gentleness, in our full expression of being.