I’ve been listening to some podcasts lately; there are so many I’ve just discovered that I can’t wait to get to! So I followed your example and upped the pace to 1.5 times. I know you’re all on the 2 or 2.5 setting but this was more my speed. Until I was cleaning the bathroom listening to my Conversation with a Reluctant Therapist and had an epiphany. I realized I didn’t want to just get through it so I could rush onto the next one. I wanted to savor her words and ideas and just bask in the experience of this one podcast. I wanted her to slow down, I wanted to just enjoy the moment without worrying what else I was missing out on. I’d listen to the others later. Eventually. Down the road. Whenever it works out.
I didn’t have to talk myself into switching back to the regular speed. The moment we were back to normal, I exhaled and immediately felt settled. Like me again.
I’ve lived long enough to have moved past the race mentality. There was a season. A middle-of-my-life season. But I’m over it. Now I just want to savor everyday regular life. At normal speed. I don’t feel compelled to be hasty with something as precious as my time. I’m ok with slow and steady. And so switching back felt authentic. Much improved.
I’ll throw the ball to our dogs in the fading evening in our long living room now and then. I sometimes just sit on the floor and scratch and rub them. Possibly a huge time waster. My older self would definitely think so. But I have no qualms about spending a few minutes of the muted day just loving on them. Their satisfaction is obvious, and when I allow myself to just be, mine is too.
It was quiet in the house just last night. The dogs had eaten. The kids were distributed. Todd wasn’t home from work yet. The dishwasher was humming, the dryer was nearly ready for me, I was in the middle of cleaning the bathroom before I dropped our daughter off at volleyball practice, and I remembered the letter in my purse from my aunt that I’d only read half-way. So I sat in front of my fireplace and just relished the sensation of an old-fashioned note handwritten in beautiful English teacher penmanship. On real stationery. We’ve been sending each other letters for decades. Countless exchanges just like this. So I gave myself permission to just rest and read. And then I read it again. And stayed right where I was without moving to make dinner for our guests due in just over an hour. Without finishing the bathroom right away. Without bothering to tidy up. Without switching the laundry.
I noticed the walls are part brown and part white, still patiently waiting for a painting day. I take in the vintage tables circa 1950 that we claimed at a school sale for $5 each. One holds craft implements that usually live in the sunroom; the other cradles the puzzle Todd and I started the night before. The mantel holds treasures that reflect our style, nothing that’s in vogue or noteworthy, just pictures and trinkets that delight us. It’s a hodgepodge of new and old. Mostly old. But it feels like us, comfortable and homey. I relished the cocooned feeling and took some time to observe and think for awhile.
About nothing really. About everything. The friends who are struggling in their marriages and have confided other sad stories. Recent exchanges and conversations. Wood we have in mind for a new mantel. Pillows I’ve decided to create. Our long winter akin to Laura’s. How much I love Todd. How weird it is to be this old and in this strange stage of life and have no kids at home. My 84 year-old aunt’s funny admonition from her letter, “Caren, I would like to see you explore the labor market in your area… You have many years left—what are you going to do???” I just sunk a little deeper into my little couch amused and content with my wonderings and ponderings.
But as I sat in the still and fading light, surrounded by snow and shadows, I realized how fulfilled I am listening to life, living life, feeling life at this slower speed. I’m generally efficient, I like to make the most of my days. Time is one of my most valued commodities. And yet my attitude about it has shifted over a lifetime.
I no longer see putting together a puzzle with Todd a waste of time. I don’t worry that sitting in front of the fire with my family is taking away from our work night. I’m fine with spending an hour each night making dinner with my son. I enjoy long talks on my daughter’s bed. I’m ok with the quiet minutes with my thoughts as I do my errands. I’m good with some blank space around our activities. I relish weekends and week nights with nothing on the agenda. I don’t need excitement, a frenzy of activity, a calendar bursting with commitments, a life blurred because it’s speeding past. I’m good with a little less.
Because it’s already going too fast. If there was any way in the world to push pause or rewind or half-speed, I’d take it. I feel immense relief that I still have time. To just be. To read quietly alone. To stay up late talking with Todd in our bed after a full day. To linger with a friend for the better part of an afternoon. To take walks. To write letters the old-fashioned way. To be present for the seventh grade volleyball game. To read books with my little one-year-old friend. To enjoy beautiful music. To play Scrabble with friends late into the night. To reminisce about the days with our littles. To hear Todd’s plans for landscaping the yard and what he wants to plant in the garden. To share some thoughts about relationships with the kids. To make muffins with streusel topping with wild blueberries from summer in Minnesota. These things take time. Un-rushed—sometimes unplanned—time.
As we slow things down from the double speed so many of us are used to, we become ridiculously more productive. If that’s your goal. It’s counter-intuitive to be sure, but I can’t begin to enumerate how many cooking mishaps have resulted from my hastiness, how many trucks we’ve seen in the ditches because they were driving too fast for the icy road conditions, how many errors I made in algebra because I was careless and moving through my homework too quickly, how many details I’ve gotten wrong because I jumped to conclusions and didn’t stop to ask questions. Or to just wait.
By running instead of walking, I’ve missed out on the subtleties that enhance everyday life. A rushed exchange with a child, jotting down the date and time, but forgoing an opportunity to ask how she feels about the recital or the procedure she’s heading to. When I’m distracted, I don’t notice a friend’s real concern, the hesitancy in a text, her need to talk. If we have a busy night and have to get out the door, I miss our dinner routine, our time to catch up and talk around the table. If we plug too much into a pleasure trip, we might miss the antique shop or quaint cafe because we’re limited by our itinerary that keeps us on task. When I’m doubling my speed or even running a little faster than necessary, I’m actually taking in less, doing less, feeling less.
The most valuable dividend gained by slowing down, by turning it down a notch, is that we’re able to hear. The crackle of the wood, the drip of the icicles melting, the whir of the refrigerator, the plane coming in for landing in the distance, the train still miles down the road, the quiet snores of the dogs, the furnace kicking on. And maybe none of that matters really. It might not. But it teaches us what it feels like to be still. To move a little slower. So we can tune into the truly important rustlings and whisperings we may miss if we aren’t listening.
When we’re settled, when we use our time to be quietly present without worrying about what’s next or what we’re not doing, when we slow down enough to enjoy the current moment—whether it’s noticing the leaves quivering outside the window or digesting the thoughts from my podcast or sensing the impression my heart feels to move in a new direction, we can feel peace. More centered, collected, composed.
Not that we don’t have demands, jobs, places to be, people counting on us. We can’t lounge on the couch all day and wave a wand while we watch the birds and listen to the cars on the road. Obviously we’ve got to keep pace and be productive. I’m just suggesting that life will continue to move along fast enough, there's no need to speed things along. And any chance we get to hit pause or to slow things down for a moment will be worth our time.
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