a snail's pace

Nothing about this life of ours is slow. It is on or off. Stop and Go. Fast and faster. Accomplish. Succeed. But the irony of it all is that it was like being on a tread mill. I wasn't really going anywhere. Nothing was happening. Slow, I've discovered, doesn't mean failure, laziness, and unaccomplished.

The last week has been slow. Slow enough to read two books. Slow enough to work in the garden along side George and the children. I crouched down between two rows of okra. It was cool in there. A little cave. I bent over and cut. Squatted and cut. Plopped right down in the cool dirt and cut. Suddenly I had two gallons of okra. Then the beans. No hurries, just picking one after the other.

And today. We made our way to the pond at grandmother's. Amelia caught some grasshoppers. George Wilder counted and picked and pulled at the dirt mound of worms. George fished for minnowesque fish. I sat and watched and smiled. I don't sit. Sitting isn't what I do; but as my belly swells and my body slows way down, I sit.

I sit and watch the children and my beautiful husband. They start in the shallows and within twenty minutes, they were down to their shorts and chest deep in the pond. Two hours later, we head home for a snack.

It is nearly nap time. Out the window, the children visit grandmother's flower gardens. They hold hands and walk through the day lilies. the butter colored, wine colored, sun colored lilies. It is grand and big and so much has happened at a snail's pace.

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