I am a slow reader.
When I swam I did distance – my sprints were abysmal.
In argument, I am frustrated and lost when ideas dart about. I come to clarity and retort days later.
When I learned to meditate, another man in my group took to the practice with a bright spark. When the class was done, he kept going – sprinting to become an initiate within a year – changing his name – leading classes – going on solo retreats. And though it is not a reflection of his practice, it was also interesting – and heartbreaking – when he died of AIDS within a few years. As though he knew he had to rush to savor it.
In each area of my life, I felt slow – the one who didn’t entirely “get it” – the poorer student, the one moving through sludge instead of fleetly on fire.
I wonder if the tortoise compared herself to the hare. Or the hare to the tortoise, for that matter. Could each be happy in her own way of being?
This slow unfurling and mindful exploration is my way. I see every segment out of my slow moving train’s window. I chew each bite. I ponder each page and bow deeply to every movement – relishing forward fold, luminously inhabiting goddess.
Slowly I come – slowly I go – toward the next Be-Coming.