time

a slow transition

May 13, 2016 - Daily Notes, From the Editor

Things take longer than we think
— a friend said this. She is older than me, and I believe her.

What I often fail to account for are the transitions. The time it takes to move from one state of being to another is not inconsequential, nor is it swift; especially when one is moving from her thinking brain down into the wiser space of her heart.

Earning a living as a public relations consultant for innovative companies while working toward creating this dream of Lucia, I encounter transition on a daily basis. My day timer has slots for every thirty minute period of the day, and I learned long ago that organization is not as simple as fitting my list of tasks neatly inside those lines. It is difficult to move back and forth between thinking-tasks and feeling-tasks more than once a day. It takes time to drop into the heart space.

Transitions often require more time and energy than the tasks that lie between them.

On a slow day, I send 60-75 emails. I receive more than 150 (not counting email for Lucia). Each one is a decision. Keep? Delete? Read? Respond? If so, how quickly? Is it urgent? What to say? How do I convey what I mean efficiently, effectively, professionally? Anyone who makes a living communicating on email will understand what I mean at the end of the day when I sigh, "My brain is so tired."

Someone I love recently said, "I'm not very good at multi-tasking." Oh, baby, none of us are. It is the stuff of crazy-making. Yet we go around pretending like it is possible and we allow those who claim it as a mark of their superiority to convince us they have more intelligence, more drive, more talent than we do. But the truth is they do not. No one can be fully present in two places at once. Our brains and our hearts are connected, yes. They are also different locations with different functions. Getting back to the heart takes time, but it is the more powerful place to inhabit.

The roses are blooming now. 

Outside my office and living room windows they make the gentlest slow-motion explosion. It started as a mass of tiny buds. Now, soft pink blooms climb this sweet farmhouse like something straight out of a fairytale. 

Today is Friday, and I marked the moment of transition from week to weekend by stopping to stand beneath them. I smelled every one I could reach, noticing how its own scent was slightly different from the others. I whispered, "I love you," because I do. I closed my eyes and touched the leaves and petals. I breathed.

Thoughts slid slowly from my brain downward into the well of my moving heart. It slowed. I listened to the beats and for a moment could not tell if the rhythm belonged to me, or to the rosebush. Maybe it was a two-part harmony.

An hour later I am back at my desk, still transitioning. If all goes well, this shift from week-brain to weekend-heart will only take about twelve more hours. Quiet music from Patty Griffin on Pandora soothes my psyche, coaxing the progression downward with an easy rhythm that entrains with my pulse, just like the roses did.

These things take time: Making a living. Loving another person. Creating a new magazine. Building a team. Cultivating a tribe. Helping raise a child. Composing a life. Everything does, really.

Whatever you are working toward, know this: It will take longer than you think. There will be transitions. And they, as much as any other passage on your life's journey, are where beauty and meaning and vitality are waiting. Breathe in. Drop down. Stop thinking. Start feeling. Smell the roses.

Happy Friday.

xo
laura

lucia and orcas island. fast and slow.

There is an ancient conversation going on between mosses and rocks, poetry to be sure, light and shadow and the drift of continents.
— Robin Wall Kimmerer

March 3, 2016 - Daily Notes, From the Editor

My 41st birthday is Monday. I'm taking myself to Orcas Island for the long weekend because I want to go slow. 

There is also a TEDx event there on Saturday, "The Potential in Polarity," which feels important, especially now. Opposites are so much alike you know. Slow, fast. Fast, slow. It's time, it's all time.  

On Sunday I will take Lucia to Darvill's Bookstore and see if they'd like to carry it. I'll get a cup of the most divine espresso I have ever tasted with a view of Eastsound waters, distant cedars, huge rocks and maybe sky, depending on the Pacific Northwest weather. I'll drive past Mount Constitution and meet with the proprietors of a breathtaking private property...beautiful little cottages where we are considering hosting a Lucia girlfriends' retreat in the fall.

But mostly, I will try to move slow. The last year flew by. I'm 40? What? Wait...no, now I will be 41. There is an urgency that arrived with this decade. If you've already reached it, you know. We are still young, so young that septuagenarians call us "babies." We may be youthful but there is also a burgeoning awareness of the quickening pace of time. The preciousness of this one wild life we get to live becomes heart-achingly clear. Twenties and thirties allowed for meandering. Now, purpose is calling and we can no longer ignore the ringing phone. We have to pick it up. We have to listen.

Issue Two of Lucia came out this week and with this second issue comes a deep, personal questioning for me. Where do we go from here? What will come next? How will we make this business sustainable? How will we grow? What is most important? What needs to be let go? Where can we afford to explore? Where must we be focused? How do I do this?

Part of what I'm challenged with is revenue. I go back to the purpose, the real heart of why I started Lucia in the first place, and it is about inspiring and enlightening one another by giving voice to the heart...connecting. This happens in small ways, I think. Circles of friends, artists, writers, explorers. It happens when we allow ourselves the luxury of moving slow. Even for a weekend.

I am exploring the possibility of hosting weekend workshops and retreats, as part of Lucia's mission and expansion. I'll share more as things unfold. This weekend, I hope you will join me in moving slowly. Time gets slippery when we move fast. Slow down, be turtle-like. 

More soon from magical Orcas Island. 

xo
laura