I wrote this letter last week, with full intention of spending February existing in the slow life I’ve deliberately created for myself - placing rocks into the shape of a meditative labyrinth in the yard; silently contemplating as sun beams over the mountains each morning - that sort of thing.
The universe has other plans, which no longer surprises me, even when my body feels the shock. The universe wants me to write to you from a place of practicing what I preach, so that is what I’ll do.
Today, I find myself on an unexpected six-hour solo road trip through the desert. Tomorrow, I’ll land in my Midwestern hometown where I’ll spend a week hugging one of my dearest friends as much as he’ll let me. I’ll stay with my 94-year-old granddad, in the home my mom grew up in. I’ll be far from the slow life I designed, eons away from my meditative rocks and my slow-burning incense and my routines of stillness.
And somehow, while none of this feels okay, it at least feels like the path I’m supposed to be on. Somehow, I find myself trusting the universe just a little bit more these days.
Warm welcome to February, I’m so glad it’s here and you’re here and we’re rolling into the year together. January felt oddly long and languid, while also full of juicy change and movement. The last couple of weeks, I felt an underlying sense of agitation, a feeling of wanting to hurry up and figure everything out already; a questioning as to why I’m not closer to where I want to be. I can feel my body wanting out of the cocoon of growth and into an abundant, bountiful future.
And yet, I plod along - jogging up the gravel road in the mornings, my pup trotting alongside me; watching the mountains in the distance slowly gather snow; waving hello to Rick and his dog Boomer as we pass on our daily walks; brewing cup after cup of tea, a comfort and a nourishment; allowing myself to simply rest on the couch with nothing in front of me, noticing where in my body the emotions are showing up, asking what they’re trying to tell me.
The winter sky drizzled on us for a couple of days last week, a rarity in the desert. Making my way up the path, my body was filled with the rich scents - the waft of creosote and the deep, earthy, wet soil. Slow down, slow down, it whispered.
Last year forced me to slow down more than ever before. To surrender to a deep trust in the universe, to believe it has its funny ways of working, to keep faith that one day we’ll look back together and laugh at its brilliance. Ah yes, I’d say lightly, that’s why you put me through that. Thank you! Thank you!
I’m beginning to see buds of the fruit, untangling the knots and making some sense of it all, yet I’m still finding it hard to slow down. I’m realizing that’s because slowing down isn’t something you do one time and then everything is better - suddenly a master of slow living! It’s a practice you must intentionally engage with, bringing yourself back to again and again.
I imagine if you’ve made it this far, you won’t be surprised to hear that, as I was visioning an intention for the month ahead, I was drawn toward slowing down. And here is my warm invitation for you to slow down alongside me. I’ll be sharing more this month about the benefits, why it might feel scary, and how to do it - even within the tirelessness of city living. We’ll work through how to build systems that allow it to become a practice that works for you - your own flavor of slowing down with intention.
For those of you riding the waves of grief, I see you. For those of you rushing from place to place in a big city, I see you. For those of you feeling all the feelings and those too numbed or lost to let them in right now, I see you too. I am and have been all of you, we’re in this together.
I’m wishing for us all to welcome a little bit of slowness, intention, and deep breaths - maybe pause, close your eyes, and take three right now - as we move into the second month of the year.
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