Seeking Slowness
I spent significant time outside with my dog this weekend.
And I don’t just mean walking or playing or sitting on the back door stoop watching him. I mean laying on my lawn and enjoying the warmth of the sun as he lay next to me with my hand stroking his fur.
The grass was soft and springy. The bees were humming around from flower to flower. The occasional light breeze gently ran its fingers through my hair and cleared cobwebs out of my head. I allowed my mind to wander in the sun, basking in the quiet daylight.
It was nice. I’ve done this multiple times this spring, especially on weekends. (This weekend I did this instead of mowing my lawn. Whoopsie.)
Confession time:
I hate slowing down. The word “slowly” is borderline offensive and insulting in the hyper-prideful part of my brain that wants to go-go-go, grasp, gulp, and grind.
I drive faster than I should on a fairly regular basis. I also walk really fast out of habit. I say, “I like to get where I’m going” or “I like my walking to be a workout.”
I often skim articles or social media posts if it seems like they’re going to be long and/or fluffy. I do the same thing with books when I get excited, and I end up missing important stuff.
I tend to feel uncomfortable if I’m not doing something—and unfortunately, that often triggers a resistance in me called “laziness” where I end up on the opposite end, doing nothing. The term “sloth” also fits, but that term is even more convicting and makes me think of the DMV scene from Zootopia.
I talk and write really fast out of habit—my excuse is that my mouth or my hand is trying to keep up with my fast-moving brain.
I too often listen to respond in conversations rather than paying full attention to what someone else is saying. I have a bad habit of trying to finish other people’s sentences, and I often have to forcibly keep my mouth shut.
I have the ability to do many things quickly. Of course, just because I can, it doesn’t mean I should (á lá 1 Corinthians 10:23).
But recently I’ve heard a little voice in my head (the Holy Spirit speaking through my conscience, I assume), asking that tiny little question: “Why?”
Why do I feel the need to do things so fast?
Well, the rest of the world is doing it, and I can move fast, too, so why not?
“Why do you want to do what the rest of the world is doing when you’re called to be different?”
Ouch. Um, it’s convenient. It’s quietly expected. I want to be accomplished and respected. I want to keep up. I want to consume. I don’t like being patient or having to make other people be patient with me.
“Why?”
I’m currently working on answering this question for myself. There’s a growing part of me that wants to rebel against the speed I feel like the world is demanding from everyone—the same speed that’s damaging artistic processes, dramatically diminishing attention spans, deluging the world in dopamine hits, and declaring that AI algorithms should do all our critical thinking for us instead of just being a useful tool.
Shouldn’t “slowly” be a goal to achieve in a world that is moving too quickly for its own good, as if Death itself is hounding it and it’s trying to dodge the Grim Reaper’s scythe?
And there it is. Fear is the primary motivator for why I move so quickly in ways that I really shouldn’t. Fear of running out of time, or of not measuring up, or of having any other weakness that speed could hide from the world. I think that’s probably true for more than just me.
Our world is moving too fast. It needs to slow down. And even though it’s hard, I want to be a pioneer of slower movement in the midst of postmodernity.
I do, after all, often profess to live one day at a time.