I’ve been learning a whole new dimension of slow these days. I used to think I lived a slow-paced life, back when I lived in the city. I would watch my neighbours dash off with their kids in tow five (or more) mornings a week while we dawdled about in our pyjamas, reading Life of Fred on the couch at 9 am. I used to marvel at how much slower our life was.
But now? Oh yes, this is SLOW. These are days within weeks where we might see people socially only twice a week. These are hours spent standing in a creek, watching the water run through the pipes that carry it safely beneath the footpath. Or crouching beside a stream, wondering if anything lives in it. Hours the girls have spent listening to audiobooks and playing lego. Colouring paper dolls, sewing by hand, learning how to whittle.
I’ve been spending hours splitting logs, carrying wood, sweeping up around the wood stove and thinking about the best way to keep the deer out of our garden. Washing dishes. Hanging laundry to dry instead of using the tumble dryer. Wondering whether a greenhouse would be too bulky in the front yard, and evaluating trees for their suitability for a tire swing. Reading Rumi at night, while the rain drums against the window.
This time of year is a good time to be slow. It is a time for dreaming elaborate, detailed dreams and carefully going through the seed box. For watching the tiny buds waiting on branches and in garden beds, and for sitting by the fire and watching the sleety rain outside.
The time for action is coming soon. But for now, we make plans. We watch and wait.