In far too many of life’s circumstances and scenarios I’ve viewed the thing as a marathon and not a sprint. I’ve gotten hurt, sprained an ankle, or arrived where I didn’t even want to be.
I’m slowing down. This is not a race, but it’s also not a dress rehearsal: it’s just life. Though there’s everything and nothing “just” about it.
I’ve sprinted through writing the book I’m working on now and others only to be left with jumbles of words and chapters and a mess so thick it’s difficult to wade through. So here I am, slowing down.
I write and I go for runs. I take full days to explore both the outer landscape of this new place I’m calling home right now, and the inner landscape of myself in this place.
I’ve been going for daily three-mile runs on a road with few cars and every day the scenery is a little bit different. With snow or without, with bright sun or twilight, with Gwen Stefani or George Jones to sing me up or down the hills.
I pause to take pictures, to tell Lucky I’m so grateful for his presence, to soak up every blessed moment.
I was going to title this post “Slowing Down,” but my memory kicked in. Did I already have a post with that title? I was partly correct; the post I remembered was called “Slowing Down. Sort of.”
So this one is different: “Slowing Down. For Real This Time.”