Sweet Slowness
Some days you wake up knowing you are exactly where you are meant to be.
For me, today is that day. I’m being hosted somewhere on the coast of Maine by an artist with a brain like fireworks, a penchant for undulating storytelling, and a heart that hopes and loves and holds her guests with relaxed tenderness. Her dark-rimmed glasses don’t wear her like they do some people, she wears them, and when she shared her age with me, I was left wondering if it’s her Italian genetics or her coastal lifestyle that keep her looking so young (she still swims in the Maine ocean in November because it makes her feel alive. Impressive, right?).
Last night, she invited me over to her side of the house, and we drank freshly brewed peppermint tea from oversized mugs her hands spun into existence. Those same hands tapped on the table to make a point and waved in the air as she waxed both poetic and commonplace about life, God, and any number of things. She listened attentively and shared her well-earned wisdom liberally. She’s the kind of woman you want to know; what a blessing to stumble upon someone like that from an Airbnb listing.
Moments like those have been popping up for me over the past week or so on my (mostly) unplanned adventure in Maine as I make stops along the coastline from Seal Harbor to Portland. I try to take a solo trip like this once a year. Stretching is the best word to describe these trips because they force me to step outside of my comfort zone and be spontaneous; they also give God a great deal of space to speak to my soul about what’s to come and put people and experiences in my path that help bring a bit more light and clarity into this season of life and the next. Many lessons will be joining me as I journey home in the coming days, and I hope to share them with you.
Today, I’ll start with just one.
A few days ago, I was on a long drive to Acadia National Park, and I happened upon the Fort Knox and Penobscot Narrows Observatory. Admittedly, I’m not sure I would have made the trip just for this site, but when something (or someone) unplanned presents itself, you can choose to be interruptible, and I did.
Starting in the fort, I allowed myself to wander without a map, entering somewhere near its base. I climbed hills and stairs and walls, I walked through alleys and cells, and I looked out at the water from hundreds of different angles. However, once I was ready to leave, I couldn’t find my way out. For 30 minutes I walked with clear intention but no direction, mostly in solitude, past places I’d been and places I hadn’t. Finally, I found the right staircase that led me up and out of the fort and on to finish my drive to Acadia.
Once I arrived, I spent an anticlimactic 45 minutes circling the parking lot. I don’t have much experience with national parks, so I didn’t know to expect this kind of thing. In case you’re a novice like me, here’s how it went - you drive in circles from one lot to another in a line of other people who are also looking for a place to park. You see someone walking to their car, and you hope they’ve parked near you, but they actually parked in another row, and someone 7 cars behind you gets their spot. Other times, people open up the trunk of a car just in front of you, which gives you enough hope to click on your turn signal, but then they begin to unpack their lunch and kindly tell you they aren’t leaving. Finally, you’re in the right place at the right time, and a spot opens up just for you. Let me tell you from personal experience, after 45 minutes, this feels like a true miracle.
God is intentional, so I think he put these two ‘searching and waiting’ experiences back to back to highlight something of value. He sure does take us on a journey, doesn’t he? Sometimes he puts a place in our path we never intended to visit, a place we don’t know or understand, but while planning our escape, we end up spending more time there than we thought we would. We aim to find our way out, but in the midst of that intention, we aren’t truly seeking or listening. Still other times, we have a destination in mind, and even with our most careful planning, and even when we know we are close, we end up circling over and over again. We know what we are looking for, but we are unable to lay our hands on it in our own timing.
Relatable?
This waiting, this searching, is meant to teach us to celebrate others (even when they get our ‘parking spot’). It’s meant to nourish a new seed, or maybe one planted long ago, growing our patience and ability to trust in the path God has laid out for us, to edify our faith. Waiting slows us down on our journeys, but I think this gives way to incredible transformation because in absence of outward motion, the movement is inward, expanding our hearts and minds.
And since I started paying more attention to the rhythms of life, it seems like waiting occupies as much space as movement does, often more, so I wonder - isn’t it time we embraced this precious slowness more fully? If the viscous, slow-flowing nature of the ‘in-between’ time comprises such a large part of our lives, shouldn’t we call out the light and warmth in those moments (even when we have the faith for more than what we see), shouldn’t we celebrate the way those seasons stretch and form us into better versions of ourselves?
Absolutely, we must.
As I sipped on the last of my peppermint tea with my beautiful mid-coastal Maine host, I shared a bit about where I am in life and postulated about where I thought I’d be or where I’d like to be, and her reply was simple. With a firm, confident pat on the table, she sat up a little straighter and said, “Give it time. You’ll find it. I’m sure of it.”
And you know what, she’s right.
Friend, when you find yourself weary from searching for something or someone, I hope you will savor that slowness for the sweet blessing it is, and I hope you will rest in the knowing that you’ll find the way or see the open space prepared for you in the most perfect timing.
