Sometimes I miss living “slow.”
During my childhood, I went with my mother and little brother to visit my widowed grandfather who lived alone in rural Sumter County, Alabama. Mama and two of her sisters divided up the weekends to check on him.
I always complained that there was nothing to do. Grandpa’s T.V. only picked up one very snowy channel, and it took real concentration to follow the Saturday morning cartoons as I lay across the homemade crocheted bedspread on my stomach, chin sitting on my fists. Sometimes he would walk in and drop a couple of sweet potatoes in the ashes of his bedroom fireplace, using the poker to cover them up with the hot coals. Later, I’d see him in the kitchen cutting open the charred skins and slathering butter onto the sweet orange flesh of his lunch.
My brother and I often played on the long screened-in porch where there was a bench swing hanging from a timber under the high ceiling. I’d lift Mike up and then push the heavy swing as far back as I could before jumping on myself and lying down across his legs while I closed my eyes and let the swing rock me like a baby. Sometimes at night in bed, I could still feel the swinging sensation as I drifted off to sleep.
It was the country with all the outdoor delights and fascinations the flora and fauna could offer a curious little girl with a small brother tagging along. It was so quiet, and dark at night. My energetic youth bristled against the slowness of those weekends, but after Grandpa died in 1979, I began to miss those days.
The turning of the year has been busy and fast-paced for me, and probably for a lot of you. May you find some slowness filled with wonder, may the cosmos rock you gently to sleep as often as you need, and may you feast on roasted sweet potato dripping with butter whenever you can.
In wisdom and grace,