The wind rustles the leaves gently, slowly. The birds chirrup lazily, the sun burns softly. The world is at peace. Strange how peace and slowness seem to be so closely related in our minds. Peace is diminutive. That’s why I have never known it. I am a raging storm, I am loud and vibrant. Nothing about me is diminutive. Nothing about me is slow.
Slowly, my mother used to say to me. And I never understood why. I never understood why I should shackle myself. I wanted to soar, I wanted to do everything, go everywhere. I never wanted to stop and I couldn’t understand why my mother wanted me to. Slow down, child so that you may know peace. She would say. Peace is diminutive and I will not be diminished. I would reply.
Of course, I was young, beautiful and smart. Full of energy and strength, but tempered with far too little wisdom. I didn’t understand that peace is not diminutive, but gentle. That it doesn’t seek to diminish, but to soothe. I threw myself at life as if it was a wave and I was going to surf it and life obliged. But I never stopped to see the flood I left behind. Until it all caught up to me and now I wish I had listened to my mother.
But what’s done is done. Slowly. I remind myself as I try to mop up the mess I’ve made.