Last week I was in Colorado visiting with friends. The trip to Denver to catch my flight home involved the same harried driving I’ve seen everywhere near large cities: that tunnel outside of Seattle, I-30 through Dallas, the 395 bypass around DC. Enormous semis barrel down impossibly narrow lanes while zippy sports cars thread the traffic, leaving razor-thin spaces between bumpers. Most of my life I’ve been a proud master of this kind of driving, with my kids even calling it “Washington driving” after I explained a college job where I navigated a 15-passenger van around the streets of our nation’s capital like it was a competition.1
But last weekend’s swerving journey through the canyons of the Rockies and the subsequent spit-out onto the plains toward the airport had me squeezing my eyes shut and white-knuckling the door handle. My friend’s driving is not to blame! She drove the way I used to, confident and unconcerned, able to carry on a conversation without the “shit shit shit” punctuation I could hear between my ears. I have become a fraidy cat, someone who doesn’t mind taking my time and who does mind these wild west-style stretches of pavement and shiny guard rails, of engines and metal.
It’s one reason why people from other places are so noticeable in and around Missoula: they drive in that impatient, aggressive way they’re used to doing back in Texas, or wherever.2 It’s not entirely their fault; I just wish they would figure this new, slower, life out a little sooner.
Reflecting on the changes in my tolerance for frenzied driving has brought me to a realization about myself: I have become less interested not only in that kind of road experience, but also in that kind of quick, must-do life. I used to be an impatient, impulsive person – and there are certainly vestiges of that self in much of what I do. Early morning July 4th, for example, I decided to redo my upstairs bathroom, and by nightfall I had directly purchased or ordered everything needed for that project. But I didn’t start taping or painting. In fact all the supplies are still downstairs so I can ponder, thoughtfully, how to proceed. This “slow life” appeals to me, even if I have to remind myself to choose it.
Also, I’m a pretty quiet person. I like music but often forget to use the speakers I bought myself. I don’t have a TV or any streaming services – watching television makes me feel like I’ve consumed too many potato chips, so that noise doesn’t invade my home either. If I didn’t live in a townhouse near an interstate, I might never hear anything besides the birds, an occasional car, and my own voice as I talk to my cat and my plants.3 I like that idea.
How many people embrace a slower, quieter life, one that includes rest and is not defined by hurry? The meandering driving. The garden puttering. The evenings with a book. Voluntary naps, not naps in service of chasing down a second wind. A balance between enjoyable work, and wandering around the community garden admiring people’s poppies.
“They don’t see the capacity to work hard as indicative of moral fortitude.”
AHP recently published a fantastic newsletter on this topic called “Bed Rotting and Loud Quitting.” Strong recommendation on the whole piece. About a certain generation of people and their attitude toward working, she notes with a level of admiration4: “They don’t see the capacity to work hard as indicative of moral fortitude.” Oh friends, if I could explain the thing I’ve lived my entire life by, it’s this line right here. Call it Calvinism, call it growing up with hard-nosed women who did it all, but Working Hard, A Lot has been ever my guiding principle, the one thing I could take pride in. But now, I am tired.
AHP ends the piece with this line, which whacked me across the face (softly, like a fleecy bag of warmed rice):
The world thinks rest, recovery, and general refusal of work is gross. You can — and should — do it anyway.
I’ve had to learn how to rest. It doesn’t come easy, but I’m getting there. I wonder, are most people I know naturally able to relax, or do they learn it over time? Is it an age-related revelation, location-focused, friend-influenced? A product of children growing up and away? Probably all of that, at least in my case. When I sip my coffee in the mornings on a frayed blue deck chair, reach down to pull up some chickweed that’s choking a pansy, consider a sparrow my cat is stalking,5 I find I’m quite content with this slower roll through my middle age.
I only scraped one rearview mirror on a brick wall in a too-skinny alleyway!
Over my lunch hour after drafting this, I took a little errand out of town and marveled at the car riding directly up onto me despite the sharp curves and my adherence to just-at-speed-limit. After I moved over I saw them: Texas plates.
the most revealing sentence in this whole essay just happened. Yes, I talk to my plants. They like it!
or maybe I’m the one admiring it
Don’t worry, she never catches them.
I knew someone who had commuted in the Bay Area for 30 years. When he came to Montana. On vacation, he literally raced up to EVERY stop sign, slammed on the brakes and then accelerated at full throttle….in a Honda Civic wagon…🤷🏽♂️
I crave what you’ve described. And Gracie is so cute!🖤