Raising Elves

As wild as nature. Myself, parenting and natural remedies blog.


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On being slow

When I was a child

I was slow.

Slow to process

slow to learn

slow to grow.

 

In those days there was

no such thing

as a person who learned

outside of the ring.

They yelled and they screamed

I could not do

anything.

 

So I became fast.

 

I acted instead of thought,

so fast.

I escaped instead of felt,

too fast.

I stopped thinking.

I stopped feeling.

I stopped being.

I stopped breathing,

at last;

they stopped shouting.

 

In the quiet of the night,

when no one was around.

I stopped stopping.

Dwelling inside

the rhythmic nothingness

of sound.

 

And I was slow.

 

I was me.

 

I comprehend slow, but deep.

I act slow, but wisely.

I am so slow,

I can hear your heart break.

And as a witness, you are held in my slowness.

 

I see you

I see everything

I process the elephant in the room

I store a few ounces of your anger, fear or pain

I am slow enough to see your light bloom,

or fade.

 

And although I am slow in living this life,

in learning or counting or holding

a knife,

I see all that is magic and all that is there.

I see you, Great Spirit,

I feel your soft hair.

 

Caressing.