The Slow Life

My brother got married. I had to make a dress for the wedding. Had to take unpaid time off work. Had to drive to the beach. Had to eat copious amounts of delicious food for three days straight. Had to stop in Austin and hang out with friends. Good had-to-dos, happily done, but time consuming.

Then we got home. We had to head off to work ahead of the sunrise. Had to pay bills. Had to do laundry. Had to clean up the beach-mobile. Had to clean up our place. Had to write press releases. Had to haggle with utility companies over the phone.

Plus we had to see our people. Had to drive to Wylie for a visit. Had to drive to Garland for a visit. Had to bike ride to Whole Foods for a double date. Had to celebrate 77th birthdays on the roof. Had to attend high school graduations. Good had-to-dos, happily done, but time consuming.

Then a second job - located 30 miles from home - entered the picture for me. (Ooh-la-la! Cart Girl!) And an algebra placement test entered the picture for Daniel. And life decisions had to be considered, like where to send our furniture and where to go to school. And the tasks and had-to-dos devoured hours and days with startling efficiency.

* * * * *

My life is like this: urgent and tightly packed. Fast. Over-full. Exhausting. It's not how I want it, but I know the only way to slow it down is to make cuts. Edit my commitments. Reduce the time I spend sitting at a computer and driving places to hunt opportunities and to spend time with people and to work. Put the breaks on my ambitions. Put distance in my relationships. Put my savings plan on hiatus and live on even less.

* * * * *

I often wish that I lived a simple life. A slow life. A local life. A life separate from the world of unlimited options, unlimited consumption, unlimited waste, and unlimited pressure to be current. Maybe then I wouldn't feel like I'm always in competition with my situation. Maybe then I would get to sit and read in the sunshine every day, and have long, unclocked evenings with friends around a fire pit. Maybe then I would get to write the murder mystery novel to perfection. Maybe then I would get clear skin. Maybe then I would get to sleep. 

But, adventurer that I try to be, I've never taken the plunge into the Slow Life. I dream about it. Having some sort of intentional community where my friends are just a short walk away, where we share life together and let the world of rats race without us. Lazy cats. Barefoot kids. A henhouse. Some cheese goats and some weed-eating goats. A shed stocked by an Amish carpenter. A loom. A piano. Tidy gardens, abounding with zucchini and home grown tomatoes and green peppers worthy of an Edward Weston still life. Nothing big except the trees and the sky.

It sounds ridiculously romantic. Walden-ishly romantic. Out-of-touch-with-reality romantic. Go-right-ahead-and-laugh-at-me romantic. But this image serves a function for me. It possesses enough gravity to keep me from being sucked into the vortex of a materialistic life. It motivates me to figure out some kinds of cuts I can make to slow my life down. It makes me feel less panicky about being 27, scrimpy and unscripted.

(I know I just violated the implied precept of the post "Denial," from April 2009. But, oh well.)