Ode to Slowness

How I long for the rhythm of slowness,

for the days when the world moved with the unhurried grace

of rivers carving valleys,

of shadows lengthening with the sinking sun.

When time stretched wide and generous,

and life was savored in its unfolding,

like the slow blooming of a rose, petal by patient petal.

Once, the journey over a mountain

was a pilgrimage, not a task.

The path demanded a conversation with the land—

each stone and curve of the earth teaching humility,

each sunrise a companion,

each pause a chance to breathe in the sky's vastness.

How different it was then,

to measure life not in hours or minutes,

but in seasons and stories,

woven through years of patient endeavor.

Love, too, was a slow art,

its language written in the ink of waiting.

Letters carried across winds and distances,

their paper steeped in the essence of longing.

A lover's touch was not instant gratification,

but a sacred meeting of hands

that had spent years dreaming of the other's warmth.

The waiting deepened the heart,

fashioning it into a vessel for tenderness

too profound for haste to hold.

Even wisdom knew the necessity of slowness.

The ancient schools of magic,

where silence was a sacred teacher,

where decades were but the first step

in understanding the mysteries that pulsed through creation.

How the elders must have laughed at the impatience of youth,

gently guiding them toward the truth:

that the deepest secrets are only revealed

to those willing to move as the mountains move,

slowly, imperceptibly, yet with unyielding purpose.

In slowness, bread carried the story of its making—

kneaded by hands attuned to its quiet song,

left to rise, unhurried, by the warmth of a family's hearth.

The land was not a commodity to be exploited,

but a companion to be tended.

Each tree, each seed,

offered its fruit only after seasons of care,

and in the waiting, we found our belonging.

There is an intimacy in slowness,

a tenderness that no machine can replicate.

It is the way a soft breeze brushes the face,

or how the stars, steady in their course,

seem to whisper secrets to those who pause long enough to listen.

Our bodies, weary from the noise and speed of now,

yearn for the ancient rhythm of our ancestors,

who sat in circles around the fire,

sharing stories that needed no rush to be told.

But we have forgotten.

In our race to conquer time,

we have broken our own hearts.

We are fragile shells in a frenzy,

and the very marrow of our lives

is slipping through our frantic hands.

We have traded depth for efficiency,

and in the process,

lost the magic that once bound us to the sacred.

And yet, slowness waits for us still.

The land cries out,

its voice clear to those who slow enough to hear it.

The trees, the stars, the smiles of our children—

all echo the same truth:

we were never meant to live this fast.

Slowness whispers wisdom in winter’s stillness,

when the earth rests and remembers itself.

It beckons in the eyes of a child,

who knows the worth of a single, fleeting moment.

It sings in the oak tree’s long vigil,

in the walnut’s patient offering,

in the rose’s gentle blooming.

To be human is to learn the art of becoming,

and becoming can only be slow.

For only when we let go of hurry

do we begin to feel the heartbeat of the world,

its steady, unhurried rhythm

calling us back to ourselves.

Let us return,

to the slowness that once cradled us,

to the truth that lives in the pause.

Let us rest,

as trees rest,

as rivers flow,

as stars hold their quiet vigil.

For in the slow unfolding of life,

there is a grace that cannot be hurried,

a love that cannot be rushed,

and a beauty that only the patient will ever know.

I Love You, 💗🙏💗

An