For as far back as I can remember, I’ve lived in the fast lane. Moving quickly, I couldn’t wait to escape, couldn’t wait to find something new, I was impatient to see around the corner. I was moving steadily toward some destination just over the horizon, never truly knowing if I was going in the “right” direction. I rushed around, but never felt caught up. My imagined destinations were pulling further and further away, and I was losing hope of gaining ground. I was exhausted and unfulfilled. Oddly enough, I thought maybe I wasn’t going fast enough.
And then I fell apart.
Progress came to a grinding halt and, for a while, I fought it. I resisted the slowing down. I kept pushing, kept straining to regain all of that foolish momentum before I finally — realized — that — slow — is — okay.
I continue to wander, my trajectory loose, yet somehow the needle still points North. I’m not aimless, I’m just without panic and alarm and need for precise direction. I don’t need the rush anymore. I don’t need to chase tradition anymore. I enjoy the reduced pace and lessened sense of urgency as I move slowly between people and places.
While the world rushes around me — the wild-haired woman in the dated, dilapidated four-door — dismayed at my lack of concern for the jam I’ve caused, I go slow. I’m soaking it all in.