Speed is my enemy right now. I long for languorous afternoons catching up on reading, or, and especially, shooting. The view out my window, bringing me closer to my California home, serves to remind me that the pace at which life passes increases exponentially in relationship to the years one has left. Honestly, I believe I cram more into a day than is reasonable by any standard of measurement. I am sure there is a deeply rooted childhood issue for which I could blame my parents. But since they follow my blog, that would seem imprudent.
Despite the challenges of commuting to and fro, of having weekday lives connected by text thread, twice daily telephone chats and an abiding commitment to one another, I do love hitting terra firma in California Friday evenings. Immediately I sigh and a portion of the week’s stress just disintegrates. We have a routine… as we roll into Laguna and approach main beach we lower all the windows in the car and breathe in the ocean air. It is like a booster shot for the soul.
My mother sent me a story about a woman holding a raised glass of water. She asked those around her how heavy was the glass? After everyone gave their estimates she replied that it wasn’t the weight that mattered but rather the length of time she had to hold it. As she explained, the weight was always the same, but the length of time carrying the burden was the determining factor. A minute, an hour, a day. Anyone could hold the glass for a minute, but an hour? A day? This is a great metaphor for stress. Don’t hold it.
Upon landing in California on Friday night, I set down my burden. I now believe that time is the greatest luxury (I used to think it was cashmere but that is a post for another day).
Speed is not always the friend to someone with my sensibilities. Doing something faster only means there is space to do more. Doing more means only there is little time to do less. And the value on languor and less is less. I’ve never been a slacker. My dearest friend has mad slacker skills and for years has borne the burden of great ridicule. Ironically though, he may in fact have been the wiser of the two of us.
Don’t tell him I said so….