snow day, slow tempo

The snow continues to fall, they’ve given the storm a name, which I think is silly twice, once, for naming the snowstorm, and twice for the silliness of the name “they” whomever, they are, have chosen. So, I am spending the day snowbound. Held by snow. The day becomes an exercise in slowness, as I read thoughtfully through the book by Carl Honore, In Praise of Slowness: Challenging the Cult of Speed.  

I am letting the idea of slow sink in, gently, like the snow falling. And now, as I write, I am listening to Beethoven, played slowly, by pianist Uwe Kliemt, who Honore interviews in the book. The listening takes me away, and I am writing, slow. I type, and then close my eyes to hear the notes, slowly, the music takes me in, in a way that the faster played piece never has. I am enchanted by the unknowing of the rate of the tempo that many classical pieces were written in, the metronome wasn't invented until the early 19th century. So, we have to ask then, how slow is adagio? 

My deliberate attempt to live more slowly started with my meditation practice, years ago now, and it continues, as I savor a cup of coffee, as I drive at times with no music on. As I tell myself to open my heart, as I'm listening to someone else, to stop the chatter in my head that takes me out of the moment and on to what I think is the next thing I have to do. I am finding in this book on slowness, that I am not alone in my quest for more quiet, for more slow, for less speed. It is snowing, it is beautiful, and slow.