In a sense, I’ve been perpetually reclaiming slowness in my life for the last decade. But the pull to hurry and hustle is strong and it’s easy to get swept away again and disoriented by the “shoulds.” I’ve found it essential for me to pursue practices that protect slowness. Though it shouldn’t surprise me any more, I remain surprised by how much it feels like coming home and how much I find myself there in the slower paced world.
In “How to Be Bored,” Eva Hoffman puts words to an experience I’ve had but lacked proper language for, she writes, “After awhile, incessant activity can leave us feeling depleted and oddly undernourished, as if the experiences we have been through have not taken root, or become part of ourselves.”
At times I’ve been frustrated by my inability to keep the pace of the world, constantly feeling like I’m either exhausted from trying or falling farther and farther behind. But there’s a peace that’s coming as I acquire more years, a peace that accepts limitations and how my own mind and body work.
And so I’ve been leaning into slowness not from a place of settling, but self-awareness. In a world that promises more is always better than less, I am learning to choose fewer experiences and relationships, fewer books and less input to make space to absorb the experiences of life that contribute to our becoming.
Josh and I went to Glenstone for a date a few months back, a place for experiencing art/architecture/nature and for reawakening imagination and wonder. And one of the visuals I remember the most was the walkway on the nature trail. It zigged and zagged in a wonderfully inefficient way, not because it followed a stream or incline, but with the very simple purpose of slowing you down.
I left wondering how I could pursue inefficiency in my life with the same sort of intention as those walkways. Simple rhythms that were about doing less instead of more for the sake of more enriching experiences.
I decided to make my default evening activity sitting outside on our patio with a book and journal. It didn’t happen every night. For our ordinary days, I started my evening unwind outside. It’s become integrated into my daily rhythm, rather than a rigid schedule bound to specific times. This is to say that it doesn’t happen every night at the same exact time and that has been monumental in doing it with any sort of consistency. It’s been a time to work less, scroll less, numb less. And it’s been a time to read more, watch more sunsets, take deep breaths, admire the growth of the garden, and notice the slow sparkle of the fireflies.
I intend to experiment with a few slow habits over the next few months and I suppose it’s my hope that as I reflect on a few weeks of a new habit I’ll unearth some sort of profound observation or unleash stifled creativity. But I also predict many of them will simply feel wholesome, like eating a nutritious meal and the takeaway is an elementary conclusion: This is good for me. Slowing down gives me the space required to remember and to reimagine ways of cultivating the good.
This particular habit has taught me to savor the summer daylight and the way that it guides our rhythms. I’ve learned how fond I’m growing of feathery, wispy ferns. I’ve been struck by the superfluousness of fireflies and the magical twinkle they add to the gloaming hour. I’ve admired the way the light shifts around the backyard, spotlighting each garden bed in turn. I’ve welcomed the cool of the evening and I’ve become better than I once was at noticing things. I’ve read a great deal more and mindlessly scrolled a great deal less. I’ve felt notably less overwhelmed by reclaiming margin to my days.
If it happens that you’re finding the world a little too fast paced for you as well, firstly, know you’re in good company. And secondly, consider this an invitation to embrace the slower pace together. Consider with me the possibility that the elusive answer we’re looking for might not be found in more of anything, but in confidently pursuing less to create the space necessary to love and delight in the lives we have right now. I am a firm believer in the little changes and the ways that those transform us day after day. If you begin a slow experiment of your own, I’d love to hear all about it. This upcoming month, I’m contemplating how I can slow my consumption of ideas in order to reawaken a steady journaling habit.
