My history of speeding tickets and stupid mishaps that erupt as consequence of going too fast are partial evidence of this. I have returned home (many times) with scraped and bleeding body parts because I couldn’t resist that feeling of rushing down a hill on a bike or in a pair of running shoes, or whatever other mode of movement was had for the day. I roll my internal set of eyes when the bus is moving at mach zero and keeps me from getting wherever I need to be next (*ahem* want to be next) - or when the group of people in front of me on the sidewalk is sauntering with nowhere to be.
From as long as I can remember these two words have been preached to me: slow down. I’m fairly certain my mother has told me that since the time I could walk; which would always be followed by some kind of irritating statement like, “you have to build patience, Krystal”. Ughh, patience. I didn’t want to ‘build patience’ or ‘grow patience’ or ‘become patient’. Patience wasn’t a virtue; it was annoying. I didn’t want it.
But I really do need it.
And it seems like my mother isn’t the only one suggesting that. (ps – I love you mom!)
With the exception of a few intermittent breaks, I’ve been a full time student for the past 9 years. My life has been laid out by semesters and semester demands; by reading lists and midterms and papers that needed writing - and the casting of creative projects and endeavors of sport as well. I liked those fatty days, stuffed and full. I loved the monstrous to-do list that lived in my calendar and the feeling of getting through what was needed in the day and having exhaustion pull me into the next. I could see what I was doing there.
My world looks somewhat different right now.
It’s slow.
Reeeeally slow.
I can’t see what I’m doing. There is no external proof of what I’m producing; no check-list being satisfied at the end of the day. I feel stationary, like I’m wasting time, not getting any closer to whatever thing it is that I feel I need to get to.
I'm impatient. I can’t hurry this time forward; I can’t change it. It’s frustrating as hell - and yet, totally necessary. It seems, I need to learn to wait; and that much is being given in this place of waiting.
I realized yesterday that I’ve been grabbing at everything - and how gross an action this is. I want change; I want movement; I want resolution. I want! I want! I want!
I’ve been given quiet and yet I’ve been grabbing for noise.
I spent yesterday here.
In the company of my oldest and best friend, Ange, playing by seams of water and green and rock. In hidden rooms of the forest, walking on muddy floors with wallpaper of moss and cedar and fir stretching out and onward forever. Driftwood and tree stumps, and entire worlds built of moss covered masses. Thick, humid, seaside air; little pelts of water falling from the trees or swept from the sea; the slobber covered stick thrown for Scout. And that sweet drive home at the end of it; sandy, sweaty, and sore, with the sun beginning to tuck itself away for the night, the tips of the birch trees dressed in pink from the last of the day’s light.
Why the hell am I trying to hurry this time?
I may not producing a whole lot these days when it comes to term papers and tangible projects. I don't feel like I'm moving towards anything in particular. But I'm spending time 'out there' with my best friend, sorting through the worlds of question and doubt and fear and hope that exist in our heads.
I quiet these grabby hands today.
I accept the waiting.
I say, "thank-you" for the past five months that have been spent here.
I commit to learn to savour what is a quiet and rich season of slowing down.
I don't need to be anywhere but here.