It would be “slow.”
That’s the very first word that came to mind. 2021 was intense. I was overloaded with work, which made daily life feel wildly out of balance. No time to get acquainted with our house or yard. No freedom to hop in the car and explore nearby towns. No juice left to pitch stories, doodle in words, or ruminate on bigger ideas. It left me feeling frazzled.
2022, in contrast, was chill. Work was much more manageable and, for a little while in the summer, it was even slow. Ahhhh, to lounge on the swing with a book and nothing tugging at my conscience. It was lovely.
Slow gets a bad rap in our modern society. We think we’re supposed to be busy. “Crazy-busy,” in fact. (Side note: you must read this.) Gasping for air. Harried for life.
But where is the joy in that? Or for that matter, the logic? Why are we all falling for the line that life is supposed to be so busy that days just slip by us? The point of life is to absorb every beautiful moment we have.
So while slow in 2022 was in contrast to 2021, it was also a little bit of a conscious choice. I’m cultivating “the slow.” Weeding has become my meditation. Sleep, my friend. This year, I indulged in books and the newspaper and French 75s. I watched osprey and owls and fish jumping in the river. Rubbed my fingers against the basil and mint, and got pelted with rain while visiting trees in the forest.
But the slow will not bring me to a stop. The year is actually wrapping up on a frenetic note as my knotted shoulders attest. Having had the luxury of slowing down for a bit makes me crave it even more. Because it doesn’t just allow me to rest and relax my shoulders. I’m counting on being slow to open up new inspiration and opportunities next year. To drop some ideas in suddenly empty, fertile brain space. And perhaps to lead to “spontaneous,” “groundbreaking,” “experimental” or even “thrilling” to become my summations for 2023.
