Slow

Fast, fast, fast seems to be the American way. Whether it's food or cars or minutes of fame, we have developed a taste in our culture for big and speedy. This tendency lives strong in me, nurtured by a family culture of being in a hurry. When I eat with other people, I am embarrassed at the swiftness with which I clear my plate. When I hike with others, I often outstrip their speed and have come to value those who are quick-of-foot for walking companions. No matter how little I have to do, I find myself rushing through a list of tasks, as if the quickness with which I finish them is some measure of my worth.

Currently I am called to slowness by the recurrent struggle to keep my retina attached and thereby keep my vision. Attuned to speed, I've been finding the healing process irritating. Doctor's orders are to spend most of my time lying down and to refrain from exercise and heavy activity (lifting, digging in the garden, and so on), but I have places to go and things to do. My intellect can understand the need to slow down but my cells chafe at actually doing it.

In Montana, both at my sister's house and at my mom's, mountain trails lurk just outside the back door, seducing me to experience the joy of wild places. At my sister's the trail is closed to hikers allowing resident herds of elk a lower winter grazing area. At my mom's the trails are part of a city park open year around, and I cannot elude their siren call.

To hike a mountain trail in the snow and not raise one's heart rate and respiration much, one must be able to take a leisurely pace. While speed is sometimes of objective value, at other times it clearly is not. I have learned to value slow food and eschew its faster cousin, finding deepest satisfaction in eating what we have grown and prepared at home over food-like products we can procure through drive-up windows, even though a lot more short term effort is required.

I could not say no to the beauty of snowy mountain trails or the enthusiasm of canine companions about racing through sparkling powder. Charged with pacing myself, I took measured steps up the hill while dogs romped through drifts stalking deer or searching for perfect sticks. Frequently, I slowed my steps or stopped altogether. With no roses to smell, I was delighted instead by a heady pine scent, church spires rising between the evergreens, cool crisp air, and moments available to do nothing but appreciate it.

Life has been unarguably difficult these past few years and yet, still beautiful almost to a fault. With my endearing, eager, spirited pitbull girls – my Live Dogs Walking – I will continue the journey I began with my beloved Nicholai. Making the time and the moments in every day to see and feel and hear and be grateful for the magnificence of life.

One day at a time.

Slowly.