Slow

Here we are, knee deep in the most wonderful time of the year. Shopping is an Olympic sport with all its glorious endurance and finesse. We are knee deep in bows and paper, tinsel and ribbons. We have entered that special time when there are three parties every weekend from here to the New Year and an intravenous drip of cocktails and cookies.  But a still and quiet voice in the heart of the mind says . . . . wait. Is this it?

Riding to work, three drivers passed me with just enough space to slide through a stocking. Three. Where are you going?  What are you doing?  Aren’t we supposed to be slow this season? Jacked up on elderberry wine?  Playing and passing down the ridiculous traditions of our childhood?  The traditions that made us who we are? Traditions of sugar and penny poker and penuche nut fudge?  

We went ice skating and sledding and wandering in the woods sucking on icicles. We sat immobile in the back seat of a car while our mother raced to the store in thick, heavy white snow to get food mid-storm. We lost power and sat by the wood stove to read and melt snow for coffee. We breakfasted on snow cones doused in maple syrup. We saw the moonlight bounce off of virgin wooded paths and light up the world.  We were slow. Slow to digest the quiet wonder of this season. Can we stop, or at least slow, the mayhem?

Dive into Dickens. Go sledding.  Make a bonfire with the refuse of the current year.  Cut greenery for making wreaths.  Walk, run or ride yourself deep into the quiet of the season.  Buy a twenty pound bag of King Arthur Flour and use it. All of it. But mostly, I’ve got my heart set on slow.