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In the post below, I give a brief update and reflect on my mantra of the current season — “Slow Down.” I recognize that Spring is typically more of a time of ramping up than slowing down, but I hope you’ll consider sharing an area in your life where you have successfully slowed down. Tell us. Have you reaped the benefits? Or… Share some area of your life where you’d like to try slowing down this Spring. Join me in the life changing practice of going slower and share the journey with us.
It may be a new feature to some of you, but I hope you’ll join the chat conversation on Substack by clicking below. If that’s too fast-paced for you, leave a comment as usual.
Now, Even Slower
In hopes of easing the twisted, crashy feeling in my gut, I lie belly down on the bed. My face is smashed to the pillow and turned to the right. My knee is bent and pulled up to the side. It’s quiet in my second floor bedroom on South Chestnut Street but I can hear the cars passing by outside. I’ve heard that it’s sunny and Springtime in Ohio this afternoon. I’m lying here in the dark.
The phrases I choose to say over and over again in my head change from season to season. Since my 60th birthday a few weeks ago, “Slow down” has been the mantra. Under my breath, I whisper, “Slow down, Hal.” Then I ponder what it means , I relax my breath, I smile and I follow it up with, “now, even slower.”
It’s hard to believe that a guy in my circumstances could go much slower, but I can. I’m very aware of an old pattern of urgency in my inner world that ME/CFS is calling me to address. There’s this little Hal voice inside that says, “whatever it is, I want it now.” These days, I’m interested in slowing down on a cellular level. I’m not really sure what that means but I have a feeling it’s one of the keys to my survival of this illness.
My 60’s have gotten off to a rough start. After about 8 months of milder symptoms, a series of “crashes” have left me in another deep state of illness. Since December, I’ve gone from mostly housebound to mostly bed bound. It’s been brutal. I’ve spent these first couple weeks of Spring behind blackout curtains and an eye mask seeking relief from the neurological sensitivities of this baffling illness. My full-time job has been avoiding any of the seemingly innocent activities that could possibly cause further crashes. That includes pretty much everything. My business these days is resting and digesting.
My English girlfriend Emma Kitchen, who also has this condition, speaks wisely of deep rest. Especially after a relapse, she says how crucial it is to let go of all “doing.” Only after settling in to a new baseline do we bring back small amounts of doing over time. Emma’s experience has been that if we use this precious time to dwell in the quiet spaciousness of the present moment, illness can be a doorway to something profoundly beautiful. I believe whole heartedly in her approach, but I follow it imperfectly. You know how much I love a project. I love the creative process. I love making things. I love doing... possibly at times to my own detriment.
Thankfully or not, I’ve gotten lots of practice in this chronic illness way of life. I keep being forced to adjust to what is. I’m learning to take my luck as it comes and after some terrified moans and groans, I eventually fit myself to it. It’s fairly remarkable how quickly I’ve adapted to this recent reality. Time and time again, the illness asks me to slow down. Over and over, I find out that I shoulda’ slowed down much sooner.
I like the “if only I knew then what I know now” game. Just for fun, I’ve been imagining what would have happened if I had taken seriously the concept of slowing down back in 1991 when ME/CFS first came into my life. Maybe I would’ve transcended by this time. I’d probably be a meditation guru... or a super humble teacher of gentle yoga. Instead, I’m bed bound, I have a burning passion for productivity and I’ve got three and a half million followers on TikTok — but not enough energy to record a video.
When I was in the worst of it a couple weeks ago, upon awakening, the first thought that crossed my mind was, “I’m fucked.” The feeling that goes with that thought reminds me of the time I got swept into the ocean by a rogue wave in Kauai. On one side of me were turbulent waves crashing against sharp lava rocks. On the other side was the infinite gray ocean that reached out as far as my eyes could see. Beneath me was an undercurrent that felt like a rushing river pulling me out to my death. I remember the baffling depths of terror that I felt as I realized how deeply fucked I was. Miraculously, in that situation, the right wave came along at the right time and helped push me to safety. The guy that had been standing right next to me didn’t have such luck. His daughter had to attend her dad’s memorial service there on the ocean with the seals and the wind. I, on the other hand, got this bonus life that I’m still living today. Maybe I’m not so fucked after all.
The truth is, in so many ways, I’m blessed. But there’s no denying it. ME/CFS is one of the rougher ones. I don’t wish it upon anyone. In those earliest hours of the morning with intense symptoms overwhelming my nervous system, I can pretty easily convince myself that it’s always gonna be like this and it’s probably only gonna get worse. Instead, I’m grateful to say that I’ve seen small signs of improvement over the last few days.
The more days that I get to live in this body, the more I learn the importance of changing the “I’m fucked” thought to something more productive. So I turn to one of a handful of my favorites -- thoughts like “Yes” or “Thank you, God” or “This too shall pass” or “This moment” or no thought at all. During this recent downturn, The one I’ve gone to most is “Slow Down.” Hey, that reminds me of a song. Remember this one? Sing it with me.
Slow down, you’re movin’ too fast
You got to make the morning last
Just kicking down the cobblestones
Looking for fun and feelin’ groovy
Ladldeea da da da dum, feelin’ groovy.
-Paul Simon
Having raced through much of my life with self-important busy-ness and an inner drive of urgency, “Slow down” points me in the direction of the truth. It brings me back to the moment. I slow down my breathing. I slow down my thinking. I imagine my heartbeat slowing. I picture all the cells in my body relaxing. Then I smile and I say, “now, even slower.”
I like slowing down cause it requires patience and I’ve got little patience. I’m certain that patience is a good things to have so I get to spend these long days in bed practicing. I take a bite of food and then I slow down. I practice patience. I knit a single round of a sock and then I rest. I practice patience. I write a few sentences of my next Substack and then I pause. I practice patience. I lie belly down with my face smashed to the pillow and my leg up to the side and I think, “Slow down, Hal” I breathe slower. I think slower. I smile and then I whisper, “now even slower... even slower.” I practice patience. I practice trust. I practice surrender.
In Letters to a Young Poet, Rilke says it so beautifully. He writes:
“Being an artist means, not reckoning and counting, but ripening like the tree which does not force its sap and stands confident in the storms of spring without the fear that after them may come no summer. It does come. But it comes only to the patient, who are there as though eternity lay before them, so unconcernedly still and wide. I learn it daily, learn it with pain to which I am grateful: patience is everything.”
Thanks so much for reading. It’s a been a joy producing this publication and I’m so glad that you’re a part of it. Enjoy living in that body of yours. See you next time. H
