Hurry Up and Slow Down

Of necessity, I have had to slow down in recent months. Physical symptoms that are stress-related tend to flare up as soon as I take on more than I should ... when I say "yes", when truly, the answer is "no".

I've come to the conclusion that my natural pace is very much at odds with the pace of so many lives around me. It could be because I am an introvert, or it might even be because there is something unhealthy about the frenetic lifestyle of so many in the west. In all likelihood, both factors are brought to bear.

Today, mercifully, I have a day off from work with nothing in particular scheduled, and I love days like this - days when I can look ahead and think... how will I fill this hour? what can I do with my afternoon? My day is an open book. It could bring wonderful surprises and, of course, not having planned anything, there is always the risk that I'll fritter the time away, doing nothing particularly productive.

Something in me rebels - forcefully - at planning out all of my time just in case I end up wasting it otherwise. Maybe it is because it is in those unplanned segments of time that some of the most beautiful and spontaneous gifts have appeared in my life. It's always in those moments that I tend to notice something remarkable in nature. No doubt, everyday some beautiful animal traverses our property, and we miss it, because we are caught up in the frenetic pace that at times is imposed upon us. When I slow down and plan nothing, I can look out the window and watch a pair of deer pause in the woods nearby. I make room in my life for the phone conversation that needs to happen with a friend - for her sake, for my sake, for both our sakes.

When I don't make room in my life for emptiness, stillness, non-activity, I can no longer hear myself. I lose my centre, and I lose access to my source of strength, the place from which I act, when the time comes for activity. A passage from a favourite prayer goes as follows:

"If it be Thy pleasure, make me to grow as a tender herb in the meadows of Thy grace, that the gentle winds of Thy will may stir me up and bend me into conformity with Thy pleasure, in such wise that my movement and my stillness may be wholly directed by Thee." (Baha'u'llah)

There is a time to be still and there is a time to act. Learning to respect my own inner rhythms is an ongoing process for me. When I reflect on the above passage, though, I understand that those rhythms are God-directed; it is for me to be enough in touch with them to be able to surrender to them.

The diversity of the human race takes many forms, and one of those forms is in terms of individual rhythms. There are some who thrive on "frenetic". There are others who cannot function without ample solitude and stillness. And, of course, there are many and various shades in between. Learning to appreciate all such temperaments for their unique offerings is the task of all of us.

Recently, I spent time with a dear friend who confessed to me that she is having to learn how to live life more slowly and with greater awareness, after a lifetime of living life in the frenetic lane. Certain circumstances have forced this upon her, but she is beginning to view those circumstances as a blessing. In slowing down, she is finding she has more time to appreciate those dear to her. In slowing down, those dear to her have more access to her. They don't feel rushed in the time they spend with her.

My mother was fairly driven for much of her life. She took some pride in the fact that she often had 3 or 4 tasks running at once. If I needed to talk to her, she could not do so without bringing along a task, such as her knitting. At times I resented it. But in her latter years, she learned the same lesson my friend is learning - how to slow down and savour this moment with a loved one. This moment, she knew all too well, might be the last one she would have with this loved one.

When I was younger, I loved to go to dance halls. I recall sitting at a table, listening to the music, and waiting for the moment when some piece of music, or some rhythm, would quite literally pull me to my feet irresistibly. Then, and only then, could I let the dancer in me emerge. I have felt the most alive in such moments.

We can only love light if we've experienced darkness. It is the contrast, the variation, that makes light appealing and beautiful to us. Similarly, I believe that we need stillness to appreciate and relish those moments when the "music" in our lives stirs us to our feet.

But in this moment I relish and appreciate the stillness of this peaceful, empty day.