Hi, everyone,
In May, I had the incredible opportunity to co-lead a study abroad trip to several different countries in Europe with students from Millersville. We got to visit some fascinating international organizations like the Organization for the Prohibition of Chemical Weapons and the International Criminal Court. We saw works of art from stunning Dutch painters like Vermeer and Rembrandt. We ate delicious food and I got to know some very impressive, kind, and interesting young people on the trip. But perhaps the thing I’ve been mulling over most in the weeks since our return is, well, quite pedestrian: my walking pace.
As is typical in Europe, we spent a good deal of time walking, either to our various destinations or simply to meander around the winding streets in the historic section of whatever city we were visiting that day. My co-leader was a colleague who is Very Tall. (I asked him once for the specifics, but after 6 foot, my brain registers all heights simply as “Very Tall.”) If you are reading this, you have likely met me and can attest that I am… not. During the first time I took on the responsibility of leading our group of 14 luggage-wheeling Americans through the busy streets of The Hague, I was notified by the person behind me in our weary, jet-lagged line that I was going too fast. While I paused to wait for everyone to catch up, I reflected on an irony that comes up on the rare occasions I am charged with leading a group through a space.
I have short legs, which makes my rate slower than, say, that of my Very Tall colleague, if we were going the same pace. But we’re not. My pace is usually quite a bit faster than that of anyone who is taller than me, and after a lifetime of compensating for having short legs, I often overcompensate when I’m leading others because I’m so worried I’m going too slowly! I have an adopted pace and a natural pace.
When I explained this to my colleague and to one of the (also Very Tall) students, they asked for a demonstration of my natural pace. At that point, the three of us were walking at what I’m sure we all thought was a reasonable pace. I abruptly slowed down to what feels most natural to me, to a rhythm that wasn’t asking my hips and knees and feet to operate in overdrive.
“Oh wow,” they both said. And the funny thing is, I almost did too. I am so used to being in overdrive mode that my natural mode felt clunky at first, like I’d suddenly gone from 5th gear straight into 2nd. Because I’ve been using my adopted pace for so long, that’s now my default. But as jarring as it was to slow down so suddenly, there was also something profoundly familiar and right about it, like hugging someone for the first time in ages and remembering the particular way you fit together.
Since then, I’ve been thinking a lot about my natural and adopted paces. There are times when it’s very useful to have the option of my adopted pace. There are social reasons for me to walk faster. When two or more people are walking together, they tend to adapt to each other’s pace and come up with an unspoken consensus one; a quicker pace helps me participate in social cohesion which is sometimes a good thing. But even when I’m alone, I almost always use my adapted pace and that has undoubtedly helped me get places less late than I would otherwise.
But that conversation on the trip made me realize that although I almost never use it anymore, my natural walking rhythm is still there, still a deep part of me. As my schedule has shifted into summer mode and I’m spending more time with the kiddos, I have had both time and occasion to recognize my natural pace in action. The reality is that, all things being equal, my body likes to walk at the same rate of a toddler (or two!) trotting down a sidewalk at a brisk clip.
I’m starting to think that I was built not just for a toddler’s pace of ambulation, but for their pace of life. Despite the chaos that caring for two (now) two-year-olds can bring, on the whole, when I am with them, life slows down significantly. Alongside them, I notice tiny details: a miniature strawberry in the design on their shirt; a rock so unique among all the others on the road that it must certainly come home with us; a single syllable in a word they have started to pronounce correctly for the first time. With them, I experience emotions intensely but simply: utter delight at a balloon floating down from where it was tossed to nudge our upturned faces before being punched back up to do it all again; frustration as we try to figure out how to take turns with a coveted toy; awe-filled joy as they learn how to take care of each other when the other is scared or sad (“You ‘kay? You ‘kay?”). Because of them, I wonder about things I otherwise would never have had time to consider: how long before the baby cardinals (“car-na-na-nals”) in the nest outside our window learn to fly? Why is walking around in a circle over and over (“roun-an-roun”) so calming and meditative? How exactly does a lightbulb know to turn on or off (“On! On! Off! Off!”) after we flip the switch on the opposite side of the room?
In other words, when I’m functioning on Toddler Time, I’m calmer, I’m happier, I’m more… me. The pace of a toddler feels right to me in a way that more recent stages of life haven’t. That doesn’t mean I haven’t enjoyed being older than two or that the other parts of life haven’t served me well. But among the many things I’m learning from my children is something I’ve known at a deep level all along: I am an inherently slow person. This is why my favorite form of communication is snail mail. This is why I took way longer to get a cell phone than any of my peers (and once I did, way longer to get a smart phone). This is why I ask questions in conversations and meetings to understand things better before we just move on.
And maybe this is why, since I was a child, I’ve tried to hang out with young children as much as I can. They help me remember parts of myself that feel true and good but that the rest of my life doesn’t really have time for.
I wonder: are there stages of life that have felt like an especially good fit for you? Are there ones still ahead that you anticipate will better match your natural pace? What are the benefits of adapting to new paces in new phases of life?
As always, I’d love to hear your thoughts, and whatever the pace of your week, I hope it is fitting you well.
Sarah/Mouse
