Something happens when you feed a thread through a needle. When you sit cross-legged counting breaths. When you learn every lyric to a song. Something happens when you give your awareness to things that happen gradually. To the sure strum of a chord, to good books, to writing, to words. Things that need time to proof. Things that rise and bake. The things that make you wait.
Something happens when you give yourself to the simmer. To the sound of soft breathing. To the heat of skin on skin. When one thing leads to another. Something happens when you unravel. When you unfurl. When you unfold.
When the world becomes a reduction; thick, rich, and sweet. The taste of salt and sugar, sweat and nectar. Like honey on your lips.
Something happens like transformation. Like transubstantiation. Sacrament. Communion. Sacredity. Something happens when you take this bread that is our bodies; broken, warm, and needed. When you take this cup filled with each other, poured out for one another. Aged, refined, distilled. When you do this in remembrance of our time together, the time we're given, our time here.
Something happens when you're unhurried, when you escape from acceleration and speed. When you're deliberate. When you decelerate. When you give way to haste-less activity.
Something happens when you tarry, when you linger, when you pause.
You were never escaping from your life, only from what you thought it was supposed to be. Your real life has always been in the attention you give to slow things.