Life in the Slow Lane

another kind of resistance

Two weeks have coasted by on this blissful stretch of the California shoreline. We are in a cozy (code for postage-stamp size) if somewhat standard rental, cautiously decorated in neutrals, snoozy art, and baffling books, including a thrifted set of Honoré de Balzac's La Comédie Humaine and a decommissioned library copy of Gone with the Wind. We are deliciously close to the beach. Beach dog-walking here is social, and I’ve gotten to know some regulars and their humans. Rose is gaining name recognition, while I remain anonymous, which is all as it should be.

We haven’t entirely unplugged, but we are bypassing the drip-drip of to-dos and people you should see/email/text/talk to and are replacing all that with long walks, readily available fish tacos, and spontaneous exploration. And there’s been plenty of time to reflect and look ahead.

My friend Jill recently shared an apt analogy with me about returning to life after withdrawing to cope with tragedy, illness, or any kind of personal upheaval. “Returning to your old life is like getting on the entry ramp to a busy highway, then changing your mind, but it’s impossible to pull a U-turn because there’s a line of cars behind you. You have no choice but to join the insanely fast traffic.”

I suppose I’m back in the flow of traffic, except I’m that infuriating pokey person in the slow lane frantically looking for the next exit, hoping to find the less congested alternative, a more scenic route.

Rose doesn’t care for our rental’s no dogs on furniture policy.

Days with minimal commitments are helping me realize how exhausted I’ve been, not just by a great deal of recent travel for my husband’s film, but also from adjusting to a new life, sifting through what to keep and what to lose. I’m learning to accommodate grief while prioritizing joy and relationships. But I’m also trying to figure out how to manage another drain on my energy and source of exhaustion: the constant and ever-burgeoning flow of information.

A flow that feels more like an assault.

I know I’m joining a large choir here and am far from alone in this burnout. Many friends have stopped reading the news and eschewed social media to safeguard their mental health. This month, I decided to take a break from the news and, to some extent, Substack. And guess what: It’s lovely to live without the world screaming at you. I haven’t slept this well in years.

But in our culture there’s a persistent, increasingly unavoidable hum — like the traffic rumble on a nearby highway—that extends well beyond the news. It’s a suffocating, guilt-inducing insistence that there’s always a better life around the corner if you just do this or that. Either it’s “maxing out” one’s days by enhancing your appearance/mental acuity/workouts/networking/cultural exposure to extract every ounce of juice from your waking hours. Or it’s wearing a sleep tracking device to make sure you’re making the most of your nighttime hours. Or it’s eating a certain diet, chugging creatine/collagen/protein shakes, or taking supplements or microdosing. There are hacks for sale to counter the effects of any ailment and preventive measures you should take to avoid cancer, autoimmune diseases, and dementia. Don’t forget the abundant self-help advice to cope with the weight of this life, from tragedy to parenting, to divorce, to inadequacy, to aging, to unemployment to mental illness. And the list goes on.

Even the slow living movement has been breached and branded. Now there’s always a better way to meditate, light a candle, craft, garden, express gratitude, live with intention or—is there a difference—its cousin, intentionality (now two of my least favorite words, up there with moist), all to be documented in the perfect journal. It’s a dizzying array of mental and physical maintenance, especially as you age, and always presented in the imperative (you MUST try this!!) by ads, articles, and people—who suddenly become that gym teacher with the aggressive clap and whistle.

that iconic trash chute scene from Star Wars

We all know about information and commitment overload, of course, but what about the claustrophobia that comes with it, that feeling that the walls are closing in, but without a cute Chewbacca around for comic relief? I feel trapped in one big infomercial.

But there’s another thing at play. Over the past few months, I’ve felt myself slipping into old habits, ones I’d been consciously trying to shed, like inhaling data and automatically giving my time to people I don’t know (not my lovely Substack community, mind you!) Laurie Santos, the celebrated Yale professor and happiness expert, has an auto-reply that warns email senders not to expect a response since she receives more email than she can handle. I’m not close to being in that kind of demand, but I love her self-respect and candor. I’m wistful for days when communication wasn’t instantaneous, flowing through umpteen channels and reduced to transactional efficiency.

Yesterday, this passage via Emma Gannon was waiting for me in my inbox.

I think all women have to learn this lesson at some point: you cannot be endlessly generous to everyone else while also taking care of yourself. Sometimes, you have to let people down to preserve your own sanity. There are plenty of ways to be generous—by sharing your work, by maintaining your energy, by not dimming your light. We can be generous by showing others how to set boundaries for ourselves.

It takes tenacity to filter the world’s constant tug for attention, to fortify boundaries. Time to repaint those double yellow lines. And keep an eye out for that off-ramp.

Living in Color Class launching May 31st

Speaking of yellow lines, thanks for your abundant feedback and enthusiasm for a color class. Here’s what you wanted:

• Easy and short. Simple prompts, please.

• I’m already overwhelmed (roger that), but would love to learn more about color beyond Kindergarten basics. A daily practice is great in theory, but I feel guilty when I cannot commit. I need flexibility so I can do exercises on my own time.

• Color theory for dummies.

• A choice between video, text, and prompts. I’m video weary.

• Inspirational photos, artists, and more resources.

• A way to opt out of emails but still find the class?

I bought this watercolor set at a local gift shop. I love looking at the crisp pans of paint. I might even use it.

Feel free to comment or DM if you have more suggestions. It will take time to craft an online combo-platter curriculum, but I’ve started by creating a new section called Living in Color to house all resource materials under one umbrella.

I hope you can join and I’m looking forward to teaching again.