My psychic brake pads are wearing thin.
This entire week, I’ve been pulling myself short, more aware now (because of meditation? because of yoga? because of age?) of my tendency to rush.
I don’t need to have an agenda. I don’t need to have a checklist. I don’t even need to have a plan to induce myself to hurry. It’s a default setting with variations in operational intensity (the options: charge, dash, hustle, scram, scuttle, sprint and zoom). I’ve been rushing all my life—mostly without knowing why—and for the longest time the sheer thrill of velocity has been enough to sustain the pace.
Now the thrill has worn thin, but the habit of a lifetime generates a momentum of its own and this whole week I’ve been braking, braking, braking—with almost no perceptible effect.
A mentor of mine used to tell me that feelings of failure are often the first signs of success. The logic goes as follows: “If you feel like you’re failing at changing something, it’s a sign that you’re at least aware of the behavior you want to change and you’re catching yourself more often.” (Gad. I could write a Silver Linings Quote Book.)
All of which goes to show that even when it comes to slowing down, I’d like nothing more than to accelerate the pace.