#20, Slowing Down
Slowing down when we’ve been taught that SPEED is the desired state of thrills, intelligence and success, is a true act of rebellion. Sitting in my cushioned egg chair, my idle hands rest on my lap and my senses take in everything around me: blue jays cracking sunflower seeds on top of the fence, hummingbird zooming in to sip some sugar-water, lawnmower thrums from a neighbor’s stewardship and my belly grows soft, letting go of hyper vigilance.
When I first welcomed stillness, the world grew quiet—but my mind screamed louder, cycling through scenarios and what-ifs. I would remind myself that this was time for rest and recovery after years of caretaking and codependency. Thoughts would incessantly ask, “What are we doing? What are we doing?” Feelings of panic over forgetting something important or despair over knowing that I was failing someone by my non-activity came with the questions. Back and forth, up and down my nervous system went with repeating anxieties wanting to do more and tender reminders that relaxing was medicine.
The American dream seems to be a business mogul’s brainwashing so people would give up community in order to collect and stockpile things they own. It is wonderful to have space that belongs solely to one. We all need that to feel safe, to sleep comfortably, to protect ourselves from the elements. But I find it frustrating that each household is trying to keep up with everything on their own: food gathering, meal prepping, child care and schooling, animal care, the upkeep of buildings and structures, financial provisions and management, spiritual guidance and offerings of love. Energy and resources deplete easily as each family tries to keep up with the never ending list! I wonder how a community perspective of care and reciprocity might change this. Could a true village with inhabitants of all ages participating together be kinder and more supportive?
The dreams I have held over the last decade involve property with small homes sharing garden space and yard, little ones and elderly getting the pleasure of each other’s company during weekly gatherings or mornings spent outdoors. I want to have supportive studio apartments for young people trying to make it in a world no longer accessible because rent devours what income barely manages to provide. I want to teach and love and provide those launching essentials of safety, warmth and comfort. I want to give what hasn’t always been given by parents or caregivers. I want to stand in the gap for people hurting and lonely in this isolated world. I wonder how I can offer the spirit of such even now.
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Slowing down, personally, has meant time to be still with the truest desires of my heart and nourishing the beauty here in the now. Slowing down means releasing incessant thoughts running around in my head. Slowing down means arriving right here in the now and taking in all there is to be grateful for in the present. I think slowness requires releasing performance, releasing the need to please or the need to fight and oppose everything. Automatic, learned responses become revelations of the wounds carried in the heart and the need for soft attention.
Slowing down is about the individual stopping quick reactions and instead, honestly evaluating before words are spoken or action is taken. Slowing down is about realizing blurting, rambling and reacting can be transmuted into thoughtfulness, consideration and responding with discernment. I am not speaking about codependence: a need to put everyone else’s needs ahead of my own in order to stay safe. I am addressing taking responsibility for ourselves, our own thoughts, words and actions before we release them out into the world.
Slowing down is not about policing yourself or being “perfect.” It’s about bringing yourself into real time. It’s about catching the moment when a sentence is about to come out of your mouth that doesn’t feel quite right—and deciding to choose something truer. It’s about observing the automatic responses we naturally lean towards and asking why or if we might want to try a reaction more intentional.
Slowing down means facing truths that rushing ignores. I noticed an aversion to being a beginner, not already having the answers about a subject. Because I was moving slowly, I was able to identify this fear and choose whether I wanted to do what I have been doing (avoid) or try something new (accept). Being a student is a beautiful part of life that should never end or be judged as wrong. I can hold the part of me that is afraid of looking stupid and remind myself that not knowing opens the door to wonder.
I propose that trying to do everything alone is unnatural, that we rush because we believe we should manage life’s complications easily and independently. Growing up as a pastor’s daughter, I witnessed the endless needs in community and the opportunities to love and care for each other when reciprocity and respect is traded. When everyone participates, responsibilities are shared and burdens are lessened. There is fear also, whispering in my right ear. It says, “people take.” And I know that’s true.
People are so used to living in a world that doesn’t care, that dehumanizes and degrades anything outside the white, male normative. Fear and survival often requires taking. We rush so we cannot see clearly and feel fully the neglect and destruction of each other and our earth. Maybe the first step is to connect with a neighbor who lives alone. Maybe it is to look inward at what we could easily share.
So I ask you, softly:
What would you love to trade?
How could you offer something you love, and receive care for what you can’t carry alone?
Where do we already find the roots of village-love?
And what could we create, together?
Swinging in my egg chair, the sun crawls over the fence and lands bright and warm on my skin. I sit this time not as someone retreating from the world, but as someone envisioning a new one. The sugar-water is half-empty. The blue jays are squawking loudly. My body, once clenched in urgency, now hums with a deeper knowing: this slowing down is not a luxury. It is a strategy. A statement. A spell. From here, I can see the village beginning to rise—one honest moment, one quiet rebellion at a time.