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Slow Down and See How Beautiful Everything Is
Author of The Widow in the Woods
When I first learned that I might not ever regain my mobility, I wanted to be dead.
Bear with me – I know this isn’t starting out as an entertaining piece of Saturday Shenanigans, but I promise – it gets better. I touched on some of this before, but with a different focus and far less gritty.
For a while, I thought that I had nothing left to live for. Despondent would have been an upgrade to describe how I was feeling. Everything I always did required mobility – wandering around a maze of foreign cities, hiking in the woods, trying to beat yesterday’s step count on my Fitbit. But not just that – standing up and cooking elaborate meals for my family, decorating my home, going out to dinner – it felt like all that was over, forever. I would now be a burden on my children and I didn’t want to do that. I was, in my state of mind then, no longer of use and no longer worthwhile.
Overnight, it felt like I had gone from middle-aged to elderly.
I spent about two weeks in the depths of despair, actively considering whether or not I should end it. I decided that I had to wrap up some loose ends – things to make it easier for my daughters. I also thought that Grace’s story in The Widow in the Woods deserved to be finished.
I hid my severe depression from most of my friends and family because that’s a lot to put on someone you love. I put my head down, and I wrote. I couldn’t leave this undone. Grace deserved better. My readers deserved better. That was the only thing during that time that I could see as a worthwhile thing I could accomplish.
But that’s when the magic happened. By focusing on something outside of myself, something I could completely control, I could step out of the deep grief I was feeling. When I wasn’t writing, it was still there, as heavy a weight as ever. But when I was creating Grace’s world and solving Grace’s problems, I felt lighter.
I published the book and then thought more about how I was feeling and the world looked a little different. A bit brighter. A bit lighter. Not as heavy. The book got really good reviews, and that made me feel like I’d accomplished something while stuck in bed for a year, trying in vain not to damage my already deeply impaired ankle. It was something I’d always wanted to do – write fiction – ever since I was a little girl.
Now when I thought about the decision I’d made a few weeks prior, all I could think about was the things I would miss out on if I went through with it.
That’s when everything changed.
All of this took place in my head.
The despair, the writing, the decisions, the negative belief system. Nobody had really known what I was going through because I thought it was too great a hardship to share.
But now, I began to think about things like how much my family loved me. After all, I talk to both of my girls nearly every single day. They share everything with me, from new loves to broken hearts to goals and dreams. I am so fortunate to have that love and trust – our mother-daughter relationship is quite unique, I’m told. We’re extremely close, and though we are separated by distance, we’re always together through communication.
They always turned to me for advice and unconditional love, and I wanted to be there when they needed it in the future. I wanted to see them get married, have babies if that’s what they wanted, tell stories to my grandchildren about the adventures I’d had, and show them the photographs I had taken of faraway lands.
I have incredible friends. Some, I’m in touch with daily. Others, I speak to more sporadically. But they’re all a source of support and love and compassion, as long as I allow them to be.
I wanted to write more stories. I loved writing Grace’s story. It felt like an incredible accomplishment, a lifelong goal turned into a reality.
Suddenly, I wanted to get all my beautiful things out of storage and use them every day. Why had I waited to use the nice china? The heavy crystal? Why didn’t I have my lovely items around me? What on earth was I waiting for?
Slowing down.
At the urging of people who love me, I got the help I needed for my mental health. And when the fog of despondency receded, then I realized something.
I had misread the message. I was so busy despairing over the things that I could no longer do I almost missed my opportunity to move forward.
The message wasn’t, “You’re done.”
The message was, “Slow down and see how beautiful everything is.”
My whole life before this had been spent on a treadmill of hard work, anxiety, pushing through, and being constantly stressed. I missed out on a lot of beautiful things because I had the pedal to the floor, and I was speeding through life with the scenery a blur. I was easily angered. I was exhausted. I was constantly thinking about everyone but myself, to my own detriment. I was trying to do everything, all at once, all by myself, and was furious that the task was impossible.
But now, I have been forced to slow down. There is simply no other option. My body has given out on me, at least for now.
So, where does that leave me?
I’ve realized that this incident – this lack of mobility – isn’t the lesson. It’s the way I’m being forced to learn the lesson.
I’ve spent a lot of time on a mental archaeology dig, sifting through events and seeing them through different eyes. I know now that I was often in insurmountable situations, but I did the very best I could. I see that my daughters know this and they love me for doing all that I could to provide for them. I can’t undo the past impatiences, but I can do better in the future.
I know how precious every remaining moment is. Whether I’m experiencing those moments from a mobility device or my own two feet, they are no less beautiful. I want to surround myself with the books and art and lovely items I have collected over a lifetime. I want to make my life easier – more gentle – in the future.
Every time I speak to my family or my friends now, I let myself sink into the conversation and really feel it – the love, the acceptance, the time I am spending. I give people my undivided attention now, because that is something I’ve never been very good at – I was always racing pell-mell toward something else at the same time I was talking to someone I loved. I don’t multitask anymore because every moment feels so much more valuable than it did when I wasn’t thinking about it. I’m notably more patient than I’ve ever been in my life.
Making my latte in the morning with steamed milk, hearing the musical noises of the coffee brewing, smelling the rich beans, stirring it with a heavy silver spoon that has been used for more than a century, taking that first delicious sip – it’s a ritual that I no longer rush, but savor with every sense.
I treat myself kindly. I buy high-quality food that I can assemble with limited mobility. I put it on a plate with a little garnish and a lovely presentation. I curated a social media feed that is kittens, puppies, and small children being adorable. I read books I haven’t had time for in years. I get dressed even if I’m going nowhere and seeing no one. I do little things that make my life feel special.
Because it is.
What do you pay the most attention to?
How you think your life is determines how you perceive it. If you see it as difficult, strenuous, and burdensome, it will be. If you see the little interruptions and missteps as reminders to pause, savor your surroundings, feel loved, and love others, your life will be filled with small joys.
You can make the ordinary extraordinary just by choosing what you will pay the most attention to. Will you pay more attention to the stress and inconveniences, or will you pay more attention to the sights, sounds, and feelings that make life so rich?
I read Ryan Holiday’s book The Obstacle Is the Way earlier in my journey, and I’ve read it a couple of times since then. It’s based on a quote from Marcus Aurelius that says, “The impediment to action advances action. What stands in the way becomes the way.”
This was certainly true for me. The loss of mobility, whether permanent or temporary, has caused me to slow down and see everything around me differently. Once I stopped fighting against this loss and thought about what I can still do, I realized that this, although difficult, has been a gift.
None of us knows how long we have on this earth. But we can stuff so much into each moment by slowing down, using all our senses, and truly experiencing it like it could be the very last one. A meal we eat slowly and savor is so much tastier than one that we gulp down so fast we hardly even know what we’ve eaten. Every blade of grass is a work of art if you have your mental camera set on “macro” to see the details.
Life is that way, too.
If you are struggling and it’s within your ability to talk to a mental health professional, please do so. The right one can help you change your life. There are now many online therapy centers that take insurance, so it’s far easier than it used to be to get this kind of assistance. You can find someone who aligns with your personal belief system – there are professionals who help based on Christian values. Whatever direction you need to go, it’s out there.
There’s certainly nothing shameful about getting help – it is one of the best decisions I’ve ever made.
Here’s one more quote from Marcus Aurelius.
“Think of yourself as dead. You have lived your life. Now, take what’s left and live it properly. What doesn’t transmit light creates its own darkness.”
I feel happier and more content than I’ve ever been now that I’m slowing down and immersing myself fully in every moment. You don’t have to have a devastating injury to do this.
You just have to decide to do it.
The post Slow Down and See How Beautiful Everything Is appeared first on The Organic Prepper.
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