There is a quote from The Wizard of Earthsea that deeply resonates with me:
From that time forth he believed that the wise man is one who never sets himself apart from other living things, whether they have speech or not, and in later years he strove long to learn what can be learned, in silence, from the eyes of animals, the flight of birds, the great slow gestures of trees.
The idea of slowness always felt like comfort to me. Stillness. Silence. Life goes so quickly. My brain is too much at times, often branching into 5 subjects at once, when society dictates I should be doing something like smiling or replying or having a lively weather discussion. A blur of daily demands pass by.
Lately, I've been working a bit more to create a sense of awareness when life is going too fast. Instead of pushing until I can't take things anymore, I've decided to approach my days as a gardener reads their plot. I know that certain obligations or activities create chaos and exhaustion. When I know I have to complete them, I prune some things, and let others go dormant.
On the day I got my license, I knew that I would struggle to process the verbal instructions, so I did not cook a dinner that required more energy to make than I would have left. I guess this is probably what we tend to call mindfulness or contextual thinking? I have come to understand that mindfulness is a luxury (sometimes life is that crazy and I don't have the means or power to stop it), and to recognize when I can be mindful. I don't get the restoration I need 100% of the time, but at least enough to feel less frazzled.
I think to be mindful is also to adapt to reality. I feel this especially lately. Because of the way my autism manifests, it takes me a long time to understand things. At 44, I know I probably misunderstand a lot of things still, but I know enough to know how I need to thrive. I know that I need to wake up early because the very early AM is the only time I feel free and is when my energy is at its highest. I know that I like to walk after work to release pent up energy, and I like to feed my little fermentation projects as I cook. I know if I don't have music while I move, I go bonkers.
I love how this knowledge frees my brain and allows me to be more aware of other things. Now that I know what I need and how that I live in a way that honors both myself and the people around me's boundaries, other things unfold. Lately I feel connected to my bread making. This was something I always did with trepidation, scared that I would mess up. It disconnected me from the process.
But now I feel peace. I don't often sit to observe the slow, great gestures of trees, but I do like watching how Vincent van Dough develops. How it looks like an odd little lump when I feed it on Sunday. How on Tuesday I see some nascent bubbles and a more relaxed structure. How on Wednesday the gluten structure still looks healthy, but even more relaxed. How the bubbles get bigger and a dome forms at it expands. I like the sweet, fruity scent when I first open the jar.
There's a sensory richness I feel I can drown when I am in the kitchen that means as much to me as the act of creating sustenance. When I feel connected to the physicality of the world, it makes me feel more grounded and joyful. I feel that this slowness also allows spontaneity. I find myself looking at van Dough and declaring that I will mix a batch of bread, just based on what I see in the jar.
So though I might not be as wise as Ged at his peak, I think I understand a little more now. I understand that it's in that stillness that I find myself feeling the most alive.
Emptiness does not mean that there is a space with nothing in it. It is an intensity, an intense presence. It is the spatial appearance of stillness. Emptiness and stillness are siblings. Nor does stillness mean that there are no sounds to be heard. Certain sounds can even emphasize it. Stillness is an intense form of attentiveness.
– Byung-Chul Han (Non-Things)