When Slowly's worth the wait
Reflections on my word of the year, a Poem, and a storied Playlist for '22
When I chose the word “slowly” to focus on this year, I was giving myself a kind of permission slip.
My injury in late 2021 derailed the plans I’d had to free-bird my way south to Central America. As a result, I went about settling down and embracing real caretaking responsibilities for a dog that I knew I wanted. In 2022, I wanted to release the pressure valve, not try to rush the process, so I chose a word that takes its time.
Slowly meant the start of my first puppy-raising journey, where the days have often felt punishing and thankless, punctuated not just by the expected potty breaks, training opportunities, and sleepless nights but also the endless LoGiStiCs, and contentious drama brought to you by the Doggie Industrial Complex. It is just a dog, but it’s also so much more than that. This was also the year I got clarity on the motherhood question, which delightfully opens up a whole new set of questions. If I will not mother in the conventional sense, then how will I nurture in a broader sense?
This new responsibility has shown me how when you walk through one door, you close a whole set of other doors and that is how our perception of time can shift. Oliver Burkeman writes on this much more eloquently in Four Thousand Weeks. Suffice it to say, the temporal freedom I had pre-dog ownership was in fact its own kind of prison in the form of a paradox of choice. When I no longer had free time, I spent less of it imagining what I could do with it and more time just doing stuff. Adopt a puppy and embrace a simmer of near-constant exhaustion.
Slowly meant a long dry spell for me in the dating department, sprinkled with a tiny parade of Clear and Apparent No’s. I bid each adieu Quickly, which is the kind and tidy sister that helps Slowly do her best work. Slowly meant meeting the ghosts of modern dating and spending Friday and Saturday evenings back to back alone rather than trying to force a No to be a Yes. When the winter kindly revealed a Yes it was clear and it came without butterflies and alongside a new version of myself I believe was forming all along, a version who didn’t impulsively imagine how this person could change in the future. As if from the pages of my journal, I didn’t have to wonder what he desired because he would simply tell me. Slowly can feel unpleasant in the moments you are uncovering old patterns and re-wiring your self-beliefs. But in this moment, which is the only one I have, every second has been worth it.
Slowly meant a year of ongoing trial-and-error in physical rehabilitation. It meant experimentation and learning to trust others, working one-on-one, and it meant spending a lot of money for a reality I believe is worth the investment: being able to move in a body that provides the freedom I feel inside of myself. This winter I met with a neuro-optometrist, which is a profession I had no idea existed. I spent several hours, had multiple tests, and learned that for a variety of reasons (staring at screens all day, having over-corrected contact lenses for over three years, childhood dental work that created bite issues), I don’t have full peripheral vision. My left eye doesn’t send complete information to my brain. This could be why I trip and fall a lot, and why I fell while hiking. The doctor gave me a set of Prism lenses and asked me to do various balancing exercises, and the difference was stark. “How does that feel to walk?” she asked, and I could barely describe it. It felt like my world had opened up. Removing them was like going into a form of tunnel vision, I could sense my shoulders tightening, and my gait faltering with my nervous system put ever so slightly on alert not knowing what lurked to my edges. I’m waiting for the glasses to arrive and I’ll have to wear them most of the time. I’m interested to see what it’s like to walk, run, hike, and live with this new and expansive vision I never knew I was lacking.
The metaphor isn’t lost on me either. No metaphor ever is. 😉
This year slowly meant re-configuring how I will prioritize my creative practice. I took a vast chunk of the year off of teaching yoga, deeming it my pup-ternity leave, which frankly made me feel sad and depressed at times, as holding these spaces is what fuels the light inside me. But I trusted in the process, to know that taking a break for a season meant I was not overloading my plate. I didn’t want to show up for my students exhausted and with nothing to give, because that’s not how they show up to their practices. I’m proud of myself for making that sacrifice and committing to my responsibilities, as unpleasant as it felt. This year I also started back at the Writer’s Studio and produced work that prompted very impactful critiques, work that I will play with, and one day I hope to publish in paper format. Would you like a glimpse at a poem I started? It’s below, and it’s not finished.
I’m short on time, so I skip the hiking boots that are packed away, fling myself in the car headed for Madera Canyon, don’t tell a soul. Not that I ever do, not that I know that I should, not that I think about heading into the wilderness like it’s Some big thing. Bring enough water, and not a heck of a lot else. In the car I listen to this book, The Untethered Soul. It keeps saying the same thing over and over in different words about how we’re all free, but prisoners of our mind. At the trailhead I weigh my options: Old Baldy, no, that will take too long, and I’m short on time, and I’ve got things to do and plans to plan after this, so I start up Jack Mountain. The trail to the summit is only 2 miles up, easy. You’re never by yourself in nature, but it’s still quiet on the trail alone, and I'm forced to listen to my thoughts. So instead I pop an earbud in, For the book about self-realization. I cross streams gushing from the monsoon, tip-toe over fallen logs, stumble over loose rocks. People say hello, I say hello, we trod on, passing each other. Eventually the other hikers thin out and it’s just me, and the narrator of the book. I get what he’s saying, how we get to decide how we want to feel. How we create our own reality, how we choose our own misery. Eventually I realize I’ve gone off the trail. Up ‘til then, this was my only fear, losing my way without reception. So I double back, having sorted out where I went off-course, a little miffed I wasted that time, and I misjudge a step. Mind you, my right ankle has given out before, that knee has a perma-scar. But this fall is on a steep downhill, and the only thing to catch it is my left shoulder, which snaps on impact. I hear it with the one good ear, and I can’t unhear it, and before the pain sets in, that sound is the only thing I know for sure. It’s the only proof I have that I didn’t hit my head, and holy shit, I’m alive. It was the cleanest fall, I somehow don’t have a single scrape. But I can’t move my left arm without a blinding pain. I am mere steps from reaching the peak, and I have to get down the mountain, when I’ve already failed at the task with two good arms. So I do what any rational person would do: I refuse to be alone. I scream. I scream so loud I frighten myself, I scream so loud I convince myself that someone must be out there to hear it.
My “22 for ‘22” Playlist of the Year
Since the dawn of time, (when my friend Edwin came up with the idea), we have been building playlists to summarize our favorites from the year. The rules are simple: 1) fill the list with a number of songs equal to the year, and 2) choose only music that came out that year.
My playlist for 2022 is a delight to me, as it is chock-full of stories, many of which have inspired my writing this year. I love a song that stirs the listener to create — is there any better gift we can give each other in this human experience?
Next week, I will re-visit my vision board, which still feels extremely on point! I’ll share my 2023 Word of the Year, the values in my board and how I’ll aim to uphold them in the new year.
For now, I’m off to play Pokémon with my nephew and wrestle with my other nephew. Later this week I will retreat with a group of wonderful women in western Maryland. Together we will breathe, move, nourish ourselves, journal, reflect, and welcome in a new year in ritual, enshrouded in the cool air and bare trees of the Blue Ridge Mountains. I’m so thrilled for us and for the wonder that doing this work together in community can inspire.
Wishing you a beautiful transition into 2023, at a pace that feels just right for you.