Where is the precious wildness we seek
April 12, 2026
It’s been three years since I’ve had the flu. This time it hit instantaneously. I had no other option than to make a nest in the spare bed as I was gripped by an ache that seemed to originate from my bones. The back of my eyelids were all I had the energy to take in. And just as quickly as it arrived, laying me completely incapacitated for three days, it left. Towards the tail end of day three I was finally able to stomach glorious little bowls of Koyo ramen and a re-watch of the entire two seasons of Fleabag. Thank you Phoebe Waller-Bridge.
It never ceases to amaze me, as rough and icky as being sick is, how the body knows how to retract and divert its energy and resources to healing and recovery. It knows not to extend too much. To put out. To be seen. To deliver. To move. It’s taken me decades, but if I’m able to surrender a little, it moves through and away. I sought out a deep burrow in which to retreat and hide. Even though restful sleep was nonexistent despite the cool cocoon of a bed, I succumbed as best as I could. Once the stiff, painful, gnawing feelings finally broke I welcomed my remedies: intermittent neti pot flushing, mahasudarshan tablets, ginger candies, and the inhalation of steaming bowls of water under a thick towel doused with rosemary verbenone essential oil.
Over the course of the week I had no choice but to slow down and literally not do much of anything. If I did I’d get dizzy or immediately fatigued. It reminded me, how at times, to become slow is the surest and ironically the fastest way to get through.
I know, for some, slow is loaded with association. Yet, in and of itself it’s neither good nor bad. Slow is. The thing is, even though hot/cold, rough/smooth, saturated/desiccated are polarizing qualifiers, they aren’t meant to justify what’s supposedly ‘better than’. Is a banana slug cruising through the humus rich layers of a redwood forest floor too slow for its own good? I’m curious how that little slug senses the world? Does it ever roll on its back and look up? Does it comprehend the height and age of its fellow trees who also grow at a rate many would call ‘slow’?
What feels right for me now, in terms of life and pace, (rather than the twenty-six year old version of me who’d be instantly restless) is having generative time for reflection, spacious portals for prayer, nature time, and friendship, and limited yet densely focused time for work.
I become defensive when people associate slow with laziness or being less informed, invested, or involved. It’s made me acutely aware of how quickly a false sense of urgency can spill into how I respond to social drama. What has been sold as convenience ends up, in a not so discreet way, stealing time from some of the most nourishing activities in my life: cooking, gardening, mending, connecting with friends. For example when I feel ungrounded, frazzled, I check things. It’s a little something I do in order to feel in control, have purpose, or fill my time with a false sense of work. It’s the stability I crave. Like am I okay? I check the bank, check my email, check the Home Remodel pinterest board, check the laundry, check the weather, check, checking, checked. Noticing this has given me information about my attention and energy, revealing my reality and how I can adjust.
On the contrary, slowing down can be incredibly informative. It helps me answer questions like where am I going? How close am I? Do I even know what I’m looking for? Do I read the markings in the sky that the ancients codified or divine new meanings? It’s opened up a form of uninterrupted space for curiosity and imagination to enter. Where kindness and gentleness can build. I end up having more capacity to put myself in places that feel of service or are in alignment with my current season of life, my levels of energy, stamina, and strength, and the seasonal climate of my surroundings. To see myself as I am.
Society’s timing isn’t my timing
I consider the extent to which I can slow down as another form of attention. And it’s my attention that I prioritize now more than ever. It’s something I know I need to have in order to create, to sleep, to be sane, to go the distance, to determine whether it’s time to move on. I rely on it, kind of like a watercolorist, aside from her pigments will always rely on water for the image to materialize.
I write, I read, I contemplate, I engage in conversation. These are the practices that heal. But so is listening to the sound of water sinking into the ground layers after watering the garden. Or watching the wisp like tendrils of cirrus clouds, harbingers of rain, being blasted eastward by a front likely states away. Or have my imagination thoughtfully and deliberately balloon from the pages of a good book.
It may be worth mentioning that this voice comes from a woman aging into another chapter of time and self. I’m having to make psychedelic-like adjustments in the chrysalis of menopause. Quite often I have the compulsion to torch it all and walk away. Stop the writing, stop the creative work, the hell with it all. There is this hope that the burden may be absolved and, from the embers that remain, an emerging new chapter.
“The idea is to move at a pace that allows you to keep a connection to this deep sense of belonging to yourself as you bring attention to the way ahead.” (from Wise Power by Alexandra Pope and Sjanie Hugo Wurlitzer)
It’s a process where I’m reminded of this particular section in Parker J. Palmer’s, Let Your Life Speak. I keep steady, remain slow, and keep a watchful eye.
“The soul is like a wild animal – tough, resilient, savvy, self-sufficient, yet exceedingly shy. If you want to see a wild animal the last thing you should do is go crashing through the wood, shouting for the creature to come out. But if we are willing to walk quietly into the woods and sit silently for an hour or two at the base of a tree the creature we are waiting for may well emerge, and out of the corner of our eye we will catch a glimpse of the precious wildness we seek.”
Yours, Erin