Why are we rushing?

Since returning home from camping with friends, the weather has kept me inside, in my undies, wrapped up in bed, with plates of crumbs from the bread I had toasted earlier that day surrounding me. Elliot Smith has been playing, trashy B-grade television shows sit playing in silence in the background, and I've been looking at the hairs on my legs as if doing so will remove them. 

And so eventually today came around. And for the first couple of hours I did the same thing. The curtains were drawn and so 9:30 am was not really 9:30 am but rather 4:00 am in my books. So I lay there in my pillow nest and thought a lot but said nothing. And then my stomach said something and I said "alright, bread time" to it and together we rose from the lost abyss of 1000 thread count Egyptian cotton bed linen and slouched down stairs to the kitchen. 

A message on my Facebook Chat popped up from my Canadian friend Monica. We chatted on and off about how she was currently drinking tea and eating cake and reading and I wanted to do the same thing. But I pushed it back saying "no I need to clean my room before I reward myself". 2 hours later...

Eventually the housemates ask if I want anything from the shops. By then I've slipped into the jeans that would have still fit me were it not for the Irish family sized portion of bread I had consumed that morning. I've got my calico bag ready with my computer, a notebook and a book left by a friend and I'm ready to go get that coffee now. But the thought of groceries to mung on once home again is too good and so again I am distracted and head to Woolworths to stock up on winter soup ingredients. 

We drive down the back street towards the parking lot. Practically cruising the entire way, as if we are the lump of cow shit and a dung beetle thoughtfully yet with ease moves us along. We're keeping pace with the cars in front of us. And then once again, on the escalator, the crowd moves slowly if at all - Noel relating that if we were in Sydney, this would be an instance where someone would go "excuse me can you move I need to get my asparagus and I don't have time to wait" instead of just going with the flow of the unorganised and perpetually blocked walkway that is Markettown. 

And everyone's shopping. Every man and his girlfriend and their dog. And all I want is to fulfil that taste that I can sense - that spanish wintry tomato and chorizo soup taste. That smooth, filling texture. But every man and his girlfriend and their dog is in the way. In the way of my diced tomatoes. In the way of my kent pumpkin. In the way of my celery which I paid $2.98 for and got a soggy consistency from right in the middle of its rotten heart. 

Today is a slow day. And right in the midst of it I realise that so often we do rush. Slowing down frustrates us because we are so used to the rush. Why does shopping need to be a rushed experience? The asparagus and chorizo will always be there. The appetite will always be satiated - even more so were we to wait. 

I'm now here at the little coffee shop. One Penny Black. Some moody, chill music plays in the background, the coffee in my cup slowly becomes dregs in the cup and a satisfaction in my belly and I am writing. I was slow off the mark but I'm here.

I am learning that rushing is not getting me anywhere. It has taken me a long time to get anywhere, but when I have arrived, it has been oh so worthwhile. It was properly executed, properly experienced. Properly enjoyed. 

I want to properly experience and enjoy things slowly, fully, mindfully. And do that with people who want the same.