Slow

When I walk through the grocery store with my mom, she gets leagues ahead of me within half a minute. I can't keep up with her. I used to blame this phenomenon on the length of her legs compared to mine, but over the years, I've managed to shorten the distance between us height-wise (she's still a good four inches taller than me, but it's not like that makes a huge difference in length of stride). And yet she outpaces me every time. I'll look ahead and see her slowing her steps, waiting for me to catch up. I often have to jog to close the space.

I've been told I'm slow, and I guess there is a fair amount of evidence for this. At home, when I sweep the floor, I move with the broom like someone in a dream. I sweep carefully, thoughtfully, moving from corner to corner, following trails of dust in byzantine patterns around the floorboards. Sometimes my housecleaning supervisor (meaning my mom) asks me to pick up the pace a little bit, honey; company is coming in twenty minutes. I always blink, not realizing any time had passed at all, so lost was I in my dust patterns. I finish sweeping and head over to clear the newspapers and magazines from the kitchen table. "No, leave that to me," Mom says promptly, handing me a dust rag. She knows better than to entrust me with any job that involves papers. I always get stuck reading the papers.


I should have known better than to apply for a job in the international admission department at my university a couple of years ago. Essentially, my job description was sorting papers, which sounds easy, but I was horrible at it. The papers in the international admission office were way too interesting. There were applications coming in, hundreds of them, from students all over the world... India, China, Saudi Arabia, Argentina. When those papers landed in my hands, time froze. I stared at faces on passports, read statements of purpose, wondered what it was like to grow up in Hyderabad or Hangzhou or Medina or Mendoza. There were so many possibilities, so many amazing stories, right there in my hands.

One day my boss called me into his office and asked how I liked the job. I said I liked it. He said, okay, well, is there any way you could work faster?

The other office workers had noticed they could complete tasks in half the time it took me.

I didn't really need the job, and the job didn't really need me, so I left. It was the kind of job my mom would give to someone else when we were housecleaning, so clearly, I was in the wrong place.


But where is the right place for me? I often wonder this. I seem to be bad at the things that the world wants, and good at the things that no one cares about. I mean, people may say they care about achieving nirvana, but they always end up pointing out that nirvana isn't actually the point: it's how fast you can get there that really matters. I'm not quick and efficient, not the best with time management or organization or computation. I don't have an aggressive or assertive bone in my body, and I hate competition, so how am I supposed to, you know, get ahead in life? How am I supposed to earn a living when a lot of my skills aren't exactly marketable? I can see it now - my résumé, full of the most absurd qualifications imaginable:

I can't organize your files, but I can sing Latin plainchant in your stairwell. Same difference.
I won't be able to give orders, but I will be able to stare at your bonsai tree for three-and-a-half hours.
I have absolutely no awareness of time, but hey, I can look into your eyes and see eternity, so... hire me?


Yes, it's true, I'm slow. I'm slow when I walk, although if you wait for a moment, I'll catch up. I'm slow when I sweep the floor, although if you tell me to go faster, I will. I'm slow at sorting papers, although ever since the incident at work, I've been working on my speed in that area as well.

But I'm also slow in other ways.

I'm slow to make judgments about people. I may get an initial instant vibe from someone, but I don't decide whether that vibe means the person is good or bad; instead I spend time watching the person, listening to their stories, and pretty soon I realize I care about them and want the best for them.

I'm slow to decide someone isn't worth my time, interest, or care. Even if someone's behavior does drive me to that point, I soon find myself coming back around, wanting to love them, even if I really shouldn't.

I'm slow when it comes to relationships, because I want to savor every stage in the process of getting to know someone.

I'm slow when it comes to growing up, because I want to experience this universe through the eyes of a child, to see it in all its strangeness, beauty, terror, wonder.

I'm slow because, no matter what I do, life hits me hard, plowing through me in waves of electrifying power; and if I am to survive this beautiful storm, I need time, I need space, I need to be still.

I'm slow because the pathway to my inner peace is not a racetrack: it's a walking trail... narrow, winding, slipping in and out of forests and meadows and hillsides, disappearing over the horizon.