I don’t know about you, but I have trouble slowing down. Trouble resting. Trouble releasing.
I don’t walk much. I run. I sprint. I lunge. I dance. I pound out sweat
and calories and insecurities. I pound out thoughts.
When I stop to notice the packed in sand, the salt air burning my lungs,
the sound of murmuring waves, moonlight on whitecaps, and the dark curtain of
clouds, I don’t rejoice.
The panic sets in, scared that whatever I’ve been running from has
overtaken me at last. Instead of breathing easier, I clench. I start writing my
response in my head, tomorrow’s blog post, the week’s to-do list. My steps are
anything but idle.
And yet breathe I must. Rest I must. Wind in and out of unwholesome lungs.
It’s not that I don’t notice things. It’s that I can’t stop. Can’t stop
the litany of commands and reminders and rebuttals.
I can’t slow my thoughts to a walking pace. Can’t catch a sustainable
rhythm. Go go go ‘til burnout and defeat.
Oh God, teach me to walk.
