I was lucky to have time enough to make a pot of coffee, pour myself some in a to-go mug and stuff a granola bar in my purse. I wasn't late! I would get there with 5 minutes to spare.
(those who know me realize this is a victory that should most definitely be celebrated).
I hopped into the car, my busy mind on auto pilot as I drove to what would was going to be an all day meeting. I'm ashamed to admit I hardly remember looking at the road as I drove- peeking at my phone at incoming text messages- and then I realized that this day was about to get really stressful.
I had double booked myself. Not ONLY had I said that I would be in 2 places at once, 2 places that happened to be across town from each other, I realized I was also responsible for teaching a 30-minute session that afternoon. A session I was NOT prepared for. And the blood pressure started to rise...
My heart beat authoritatively, rhythmic and incessant and fast, like the tick-tocking of the clock that I felt I was fighting against...and losing. Shoot. Did I seriously double book myself again??
My busy brain started problem solving. Who I would have to disappoint. What I would have to say no to. How I was going to sneak out of this very-important-all-day meeting. My heart beat faster.
I cruised on a main street through town, about to turn into the meeting venue (which happened to be a local church), when I realized I was in a school zone. Just as I took my foot off the gas a man on a motorcycle pulled out and followed me closely. I knew from his official looking helmet that he was the real deal. Blue and Red lights of humiliation radiated from his bike and I numbly pulled over. Right into the parking lot of the church. Ugh.
I rolled my window down, said "yes sir" and handed him my license and registration. He asked if I was in a hurry? I said no. Just felt busy, I guess. I pointed pathetically at the church as my destination.
Apparently my absent-minded high blood pressure made my already lead foot, leadier (if that's even a word).
33mph in a 20mph zone.
And I wasn't even late.
Certainly I was at fault. I was speechless.
I sunk down in my seat, hiding my shameful face from others pulling into the church parking lot. I awaited my fate.
The man in the helmet came back to my window with a slip in his hand. Great.
He reminded me to be mindful of school zones, safety and then handed me the slip: Written Warning. Perhaps 2 of the sweetest words that ever existed! I could've kissed him I was so grateful! Instead I shook his hand and excessively said thank you. He smiled (probably a pity smile but I don't care) and left me with a few weighty words of gentle chastisement:
Just slow down.
Slow. Slow? I hardly know the word.
What is it about slow that is so hard? Why do humans race around as if hurried makes them more successful, more fulfilled? Maybe I am addicted to fast, to hurried. Just ask my calendar and my tension headaches.
I do not know what it means to just slow down, but I'm beginning to think that it's an art. Like other art forms, slow will probably take practice and patience and lots of time. Hurried has spun a tangled knot of yuck and it's time to start undoing it.
This is my declaration that I'm beginning to learn the art of slow. Not unproductive, not lazy, just un-hurried, un-frantic and un-frazzled.
Want to learn with me? Let's start a club. I plan to start by watching my speedometer.
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