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I'm frequently asked, What exactly is slow love?
And I'm frequently stumped for a quick reply.
How to explain something that is not a thing? It is, rather, a feeling; perhaps, even, a state of being, more a process, or an approach to life. But with the publication of my memoir, Slow Love: How I Lost My Job, Put on My Pajamas, and Found Happiness, in paperback -- yippee! -- and with the sudden realization that I've been tending the Slow Love Life blog for more than a year -- wow! -- I thought I'd make a series of deliberate attempts to answer the question, So just what is slow love?
Here's what it isn't: It has nothing to do with living a "slow" life. In fact, I was first going to call my book Slow Life, but I realized, by the time I finished writing, that my life wasn't at all slow. I had come out of sad, even depressed days, busier, more productive, than I had ever been. But still, I had learned something valuable about how I needed to change the rhythm of the day, with all its busyness. Something in me had changed -- and I liked the change.
Slow love has nothing to do with retiring, being lazy, unproductive, unengaged, unconnected. Being undone. All those Uns. But being undone is where I began this adventure. Undone, unhinged, from a way of life that had been my way of life for many, many years.
I only caught a glimmer of slow love, watching an osprey, at the end of writing my book, Slow Love -- which itself was more of an observation of where I was along a path of being unhinged, trying to pull myself to a place where I did not feel so undone. That glimmer gave me a title, and then a prologue, to explain where I ended up going.
But really, the end was just a beginning.
That glimmer gave me a feeling of such profound well-being, such deep connectedness to something that no one could take away from me, that I had to give it a name that meant something to me, and so I did: Slow Love. Because the feeling crept over me, gently, without my knowing it, or controlling it -- and only because I let it. Because I was too weary and exhausted to fight it. Or because it was a gift.
I didn't travel far -- much as I would like to be a person who can hightail it to the Himalayas, in truth, I'm a homebody. I didn't go to an ashram. Much as I would like to be a person who retreats into a monastery for months, in truth, again, I like the comforts of home. And the challenges of the world.
Anyway, I like knowing that there is a way to be in a place that feels so good without having to go anywhere, or spend anything to get there. That makes it more possible to find slow love in my everyday life.
But here's the thing: we think we stumble on happiness, peace, well-being. We think it is a stroke of luck, to have arrived at that state. We don't think about how we got ourselves there. We take a passive stance.
And when that feeling of well-being -- that slow love -- vanishes, we flail about.
This is what I have been thinking about lately. I've been in an odd, vulnerable, somewhat confused place -- at the core of daily joy, gratitude, fun, happiness, productivity. I've been feeling, deep inside, somewhat adrift, oversensitive, hurt by the slightest digs or rebuffs, nervous about being alone -- triggered by both sons moving out west. I think this happens in the molting season, and I know I've entered one.
The thing is, I want to feel vulnerable. I want to be open. I don't mind feeling a bit lost, adrift. I just don't want to be buffeted around by nearly everything. I want grounding.
And then it hit me: I've slowly, insidiously, carelessly, lost my regular practice of Slow Love.
Why is it that we do things that make us feel great -- and then we stop doing those things? We eat good, whole, clean foods. We move (exercise, we call it) through the world, stretching and strengthening our muscles. We sleep for the many hours we need to recharge. We meditate, or pray, or sit quietly to think things over.
And then, we let those practices lapse. I should say: I
