In praise of going slow

When the drumbeat of your heart isn't quite the same as the world tells you it should be

When I grew up, one of the popular TV shows was Family Ties, where mom and dad were (ex-)hippies and their kids, played by Michael J. Fox and Justine Bateman, somehow turned out to be conservative (the boy) and materialistic (the girl). For me, this show really captures that moment when the dominant cultural narrative started to dig into me. Maybe it’s because I was a teen while watching it, or maybe it was because the Reagan years were unfolding. But, the cultural narrative Family Ties brought into my living room and psyche was that buying things was the way to go, even though the show supposedly mocked the kids. That there was a right way to do things (go to a dance at a country club). Be preppy. Yuppie. High achieving. Fast. Get It Done. My peers fell in line, and I watched people get married in their mid-20s. By age 30, they had children. Jobs with a capital J. A single family home, with a yard to mow on the weekends. I couldn’t even manage to go to college “on time.”

Oh, I wanted home and family and college —so very much—but it didn’t fall into place for me until much much later. I always felt out of step or left behind. (As a white, cis-het woman, I was just one small click away from that idealized norm and it still hurt like hell. How much more damage the “norm” does to people with multiple intersections of oppression.)

Looking back, I can see that I wasn’t late or wrong or even strange. I was, and am, a slow bloomer. I quite like the phrase “late bloomer” but I think “slow bloomer” is more accurate.

In addition to being slow, I also have big feelings. Lots of them. So many feelings! It can be inconvenient to have so many feelings, all needing to be named and felt and experienced before I can let them go. I like being slow. I like slowly making things. I like sitting outside and watching small things. I like growing plants and watching and cheering for their slow process of growing, just a tiny bit, day by day. I like to draw small things. I love the macro lens on my camera and I like to photograph small details.

I love my slow life.

Realizing that I love slow things, and that I am a slow bloomer, has been like slowly peeling back paper-like layers of an onion. Each one brings me closer to the me who has been there all along.

This is what making is for me. Knitting every evening, taking a month or more to make a new sweater or pair of socks—this helps me counterbalance the narrative out there that says go fast, be productive, build your business, make more, do more, be more.

I am learning to tell myself that it’s okay to go slow. It’s okay to be me, for you to be you, too. I think this is why racial justice, gender equity, and LGTBQIA+ rights matter so much to me. I want all of us to be able to just be. To be able to live without the cultural narratives or oppressive systems that tell us we have to be different, or conform, to survive. To all my Black, Indigeous, People of Color, queer, trans and gender fluid friends, I know it’s extra hard to survive within our deeply racist and oppressive systems. I see you. And, I want us all to thrive.

This picture shows a shawl that’s coming (back) to my shop next week. Bibliophile, designed by my dear friend Karalee Harding, has been refreshed with my new antiquarian book-inspired colorways. It’s modeled by my regular shop model and friend, Marjorie.

What to do when your work is making and selling things?

Early on in the pandemic, an amazing, long-time customer of mine sent me a big box of my own kits, yarn, and notions—things she had bought from me, still in pristine condition, some of which had been purchased years before. She included a note explaining that she was older, her arthritis had worsened and her eyesight had failed significantly enough that she was no longer able to knit. She expressed how much she loved all I had created and asked if I could distribute it to another knitter who would enjoy it. (She was doing this with all of her stash, and had kindly sent a portion to me that included, but wasn’t limited to, purchases she had made from me.)

Oh the big feelings I had about this! Sadness for her, as she had lost the ability to knit. Amazed gratitude that, during such a hard time, she was still thinking about other knitters and reaching out. Honor, because she asked me to help. Responsibility, as this was a precious request. And also confusion. Some of the items I remembered rushing to make, with late nights or packed afternoons of glueing, striving to meet my promised shipping timelines. But then, that yarn, those stitch markers, those kits, had just … waited. Patiently waited in stash.

Something started to shift in me.

It’s true that large corporations are responsible for overproducing and damaging our planet, and mass media is responsible for driving home the idea that consuming is our purpose. But. But. I felt that I, too, had had a tiny hand in that awful stew.

In the pandemic-enforced shut down of early 2020, I felt a tiny layer of the flower that is me begin to stir. It didn’t feel good, but it felt true. It took a while to name the feeling. I wanted to slow my business. Not dye quite as much. Not exhibit at big fiber festivals. Not chase growth. To just be small. To be slow.

I am still figuring out what this means for me, because livings still need to be earned, and groceries cost more all the time. (I know you know.) But I am fortunate enough to have a bit of a runway, and right now, I am following where this leads.

If you, also, are a slow bloomer, if you have big feelings, if you crave a small life, or a quirky life, or a life that the world out there ::waves hands:: tells you is too different, I want that life for you.

As I get ready to enjoy my own Sunday morning, please know this: I wish for you the life speed that makes you feel most alive, whether that’s fast or slow. I wish for you all the right conditions to bloom in the way that is uniquely you.