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Living Slow, Thinking Fast

Today was a day of living slow yet thinking fast, all of which is to say that life unfolded only in my head with little to no direct contact, noticing, or taking it in.

I didn’t see the pink bougainvilleas with their glorious and bright petals, singing as they drifted to the ground, pulling me into their gravity. Until I realized all of a sudden that one day all of this, the fallen petals and me, us, these four walls, my neighbors up the road, these verdant hills and gravel paths, these scribbled poems and worn books, these fries dipped in ranch, and midnight snacks of yoghurt and granola, all of it would be gone one day. Who knew when, but gone one day, like rain falling in reverse.

Not a trace of what lifts us up and what bleeds, all so real in this moment, will remain. And for a second I felt afraid in that knowing, small and insignificant in the heart, until the next second, when I felt free, wings outstretched. With so many endings awaiting, why not attend to all the beginnings, and what unfolds in between?

Why not lean into the mistakes and failures and taste the possibilities of who we could be? Why not seek the moments that are as still as they are loud, as wide as they are deep, and rest there in that knowing? Why not expand, letting it in, and letting it out, filling this space that is as real as anything else, right now, for now, and perhaps forever?


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