How to Live a Life Without Hurry

Growing up in the 1980s meant many things–there were attempts to simultaneously dance and sing alongside an 18 inch screen playing MTV videos. Paula Abdul tap danced across the scene wearing black and white polka dots. Our legs, in the awkward shape between childhood and puberty, tried to keep up. 

Each girl in my neighborhood clan had her own version of Converse high tops (hot pink; neon yellow; fluorescent blue) and pedaled rainbow-printed banana seat bikes. Our wheels climbed the steep alley ways of St. Joseph, Missouri; handlebar tassels blowing in the wind.

Growing up in the 80s also meant formica kitchen countertops and linoleum floors that dizzied with their patterns. Our floor was especially unique–blue squares framed circles designed from mustard-colored ferns. Every night, after a homemade dinner that may or may not have included tater tots, I sat on our black floral couch to catch an episode of Full House. No matter how high I blared the volume, in the background was a constant brushing sound and the song my mother hummed as she worked.

After handwashing the evening’s dishes, my mom swept the massive square of shiny linoleum inch by inch. The floor screeched when she moved each dining chair. She bent low to allow the long wooden broom stick enough table clearance to reach hidden dinner crumbs. The brush strokes gathered the grit into a few ten inch long piles strategically placed around the kitchen floor. Hair, dust, tater tot crumbles, litter that spilled out from the bunny cage, strands of frosted shredded wheat–they formed mini mountain ridges awaiting death by dust pan. 

Now I’m a mom raising two kids in the 2000s. I don’t even own a broom. After a long day of accumulating Pop Tart droppings and stray kernels of brown rice, I unplug my Dyson hand vacuum from its charging dock and with aggressive, broad strokes, eliminate them all.

 My kids won’t remember a pleasant melody associated with their mother’s clean-up routine. I don’t have time, like my mom, to hum while I sweep the day’s spoils into their own mountain range. Even if I did, the roar of the vacuum is too loud, and YouTube has their minds distracted with shots of 30 second entertainment. They wouldn’t even notice. 

Compared to the 80s, all of life has gotten easier. Dyson vacuums and an app for everything, including how many calories you need to burn after consuming a frosted strawberry Pop Tart, save us time. And yet...we all live in a state of hurry; our brains always busy with the hustle of constant input and accessibility. 

When I was a kid, no one could reach my dad while driving his car, or working shirtless in the garden, or while tucking us in to sleep at night. My mom hummed amidst the dinner crumbs because there was no podcast or audiobook playing in her earbuds. The demand for our attention is continuous–tailgating us through life; waiting to give us the bird if we don’t respond within 24 hours. 

We live with the kind of hurry that follows us even when we slow down, seated on a comfy couch, covered with our favorite blanket. I try to read Dune, and right in the middle of the scene when the sandworm emerges out of the ground, its enormous, round mouth filled with rows of nail-like teeth, my mind jumps out of the scene. 

Did I forget to make a teeth-cleaning appointment for Oliver and Ava? 

I drop the hardcover sci-fi classic, reach for my phone and hurry to book an appointment before someone else grabs one of the few after-school time slots, six months out. 

Our minds, conditioned through a world of algorithms, are trained to jump from one related topic to the next. We imitate computers–constantly buzzing even when in sleep mode. While Darwin may have argued this is the evolution of the human brain’s processing speed, some of the most important moments in life get drowned out with the constant static. 

I wonder…

How many melodies have been lost because those born song-writers constantly listened and compared rather than composed?

Is your nextdoor neighbor a modern Charles Dickens who, every time they sat down to do the excruciating work of writing new worlds, had their energy stolen through constant emails and consumption of news stories instead?

Would a current-day Newton not notice an apple falling from a tree, or develop the concept of gravity, because he was too busy scrolling through funny memes and Instagram stories while laying beneath its branches? 

Can we not even hear God because the constant conversation in our heads drowns out the still, ancient voice?

Yesterday, I tried an experiment. 

I removed all hurry from my life. 

Instead of an intense 30 minutes of bootcamp done on a treadmill in my basement, I bundled up for an hour’s walk in the Minnesota cold. No music or podcasts–I listened to myself and the world around me. 

I took time to look up, instead of at the road ahead, and noticed the V shape of bare trees trimmed around power lines. I inhaled and exhaled freezing air, counting in the moment–not the past or the future. 

Inhale - 2 - 3- 4. Exhale - 2 - 3 - 4- 5 - 6. 

I prayed for my kids instead of emailing teachers or planning a way to make everything right.

After returning home, I donned a flour-coated apron and did something to make my Grandma Juanita proud–I made a turkey pot pie from scratch. There were no cans of cream of chicken soup to speed up the process–just me, chicken broth, heavy whipping cream, butter and a ton of flour dusting every inch of my kitchen–too fine for that Dyson to dominate. 

And something inside me started to hum like my mom used to while sweeping those ugly linoleum floors. 

I’m  scared to live like this every day–to slow down to the pace my soul can handle. I won’t get as much done or be nearly as impressive. Dyson vacuums do have that special shine and European efficiency that intimidates every scraggly broom around. 

But maybe that’s the lie we’ve all absorbed; even believe. 

Eliminating hurry creates peace.

Fosters genius.

Grows patience. 

Teaches us to hum again. 

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