Two years ago, during a 70 mile a trek in the Himalayas, my guide continually reminded my group to go “slowly, slowly”. As we ascended up to 16,000 feet, we were too high to speak without losing our breath, and truly had to go “slowly, slowly”, or else we would get sick. At that time I had a profound realization: that Dorje’s advice applied to far more than trekking. In life, I wanted to go “slowly, slowly”.
Of course, in the time since I have returned from India, I have gone anything but slowly. I have moved twice, started and quit a job, started and finished a year of graduate school while working three part-time jobs, started and maintained a committed relationship, and stretched myself so thin I sometimes cannot tell if I am breathing. It's ironic because I my school program has a focus on meditation, and I cannot go a week without hearing about "self-care".
When I think of going slowly I imagine being present for every moment. It means sitting when I am sitting, walking when I am walking, eating when I am eating, and breathing when I am breathing. Two weeks after school got out this May, I went on a meditation retreat, with the intention of reconnecting with my dream of living, "slowly, slowly". On the third day of retreat after breakfast, I brought my journal outside to the porch of the lodge. I was planning on writing, but once I was sitting, all I wanted to do was drink in each second. The sun was out, shining vividly on a series of water droplets that steadily cascaded from the roof of the porch. No longer raining or snowing, the precipitation was melting off the roof, causing a light-speckled shower. I do not know how long I watched the water drops fall, but I remember feeling an immense contentment. Those moments of just experiencing “what is” are so rare in my day-to-day life.
This weekend, nearly a month after retreat, I ended up in tears because my Practicum placement at a Boulder hospice requires a tuberculosis test. It's a simple test, they injected some medicine into my arm Saturday, and on Monday or Tuesday if my arm remains clear, I don't have TB. But they want me to return to Boulder to have the test read on one of those days, or find a local nurse to read it. Absurdly, the Urgent Care will charge $120 to read my arm, Walgreens only has a pharmacist on staff, and the one nurse I know personally is out of town. It is looking as though my one break during the week, from 11-1 on Monday, will be spent driving the two hour round trip to Boulder just to have someone look at my arm and say I am healthy.
Incredibly frustrating, yes. End of the world, no. But after working over sixty hours, plus attending two Hospice trainings, trying to meet up with friends, driving my boyfriend to the airport, and essentially living without any slowness at all- it felt like the last straw.
Today I am calmer. Today I can take a moment to myself. A moment to write. A moment to breathe. And I am wondering again, how to find the way to live "slowly, slowly". How to change my life, and most importantly, my attitude towards it, so that I feel like I am drinking in each moment, instead of rushing through it.
I have not found my answer. But my guide's mantra, "Slowly, slowly" plays over again and again in my mind. Surely there is a way to notice raindrops not only when I am in India or on retreat. Maybe even while driving to Boulder.
