It snowed a few days ago. It snowed and now it's in the mid to high 40s and still light at 7. Such is March. The light at 7pm thing is lovely I'm sure for 9-5ers, but since I've recently joined the ranks of 6-2ers, it just means that for me it is dark dark dark when I wake up and my body thinks the light means we should stay up later. So I find it less than lovely. The snow, though, the snow I find lovely. Always. The snow softens and muffles. The world becomes quieter and slower. I am quiet by nature but I am not slow. Slow is the antithesis of my nature. And any slowness that may have been native has been scrubbed out by the ever important sense of urgency necessary in my profession. I am not frantic or hectic in my speediness. It is generally an efficient, neat quickness. A quickness that colors right inside the lines.
When it snows lines blur.
And when the outside world become soft and blurry, it's easier to stay soft and blurry inside. I need some blurring. Blurring and stillness. I find myself craving stillness. I want to live in the same place and work at the same job. I want to sit at the same table with the same tap tap tap of laptop keys. I want to know what it's like for my brain to just quietly fall asleep each night. It is hard to remain still when I don't even know how to be slow.
It is hard to be slow when I hold myself to exacting, precise standards. Not perfectionism, just lines and boxes to stay within. Boxes I would never demand hold somebody else. But boxes I think should hold me. I feel made up of sharp angles and hard lines and hard lines must be maintained.
The same hard lines I maintain to keep myself contained, to keep from falling apart or risking too much have become exhausting themselves. An impossible game of pickup sticks.
So. Slowness. A continued forced reorder.
Thou mayest. Thou mayest not.