Thursday, August 10, 2017
I am a very slow person. Some of it is linked to age: when I was 30 I could read about 400 pages a day; now I'm lucky to read 50. When I was 50 I could easily walk 4 miles an hour or even more and now I am lucky to break 3 mph. When I was 20 I could snap out the Jeopardy! answers in a nanosecond. Now the path between the question, my ears, my brain, and my mouth is a tortured, winding, sluggish one.
It's not that I am a procrastinator---it's just that I am plodding.
I've also been very slow at discovering myself and my convictions. While I don't have the dead-cold certainly of youth, my certainties are deep and have grown various mosses and other decorative parts through the decades.
I am not happy to be slow. I wish I had the energy to keep up with some people. But I accept myself and know my limitations. My aspirations are to try to do a little bit better every day but not to achieve the energetic celerity of youth. That shipped sailed long ago. Maybe it sailed with the Titanic?
I read a blog today wherein the author was vexed that his neighbors invited him for a walk and then they walked too slowly. I think if I were invited to take a walk, I would be clear about my limitations right away before entrapping the people into a program which might displease them.
Being old is an alien country for me. I don't have an old woman's hair-do. I remain rather dark and complex. But I have become slow!
I know that speedy people can offer me a lot---a bit of energy by affiliation; a bit of a goad to speed myself up; a bit of a challenge to keep my brain manicured; a lot of pleasure in their company.
But after a bit, I need to drop out and rest or take a nap or go back to the soothing poems of the 19th century. I need to embrace what virtue I can find in being slow. Slow can be thoughtful; slow can be wise; slow can be stoical and methodical. And isn't slow food better then fast food?