The Art of Slow

For a long time, I lived almost entirely in my head.

Planning.
Replaying.
Trying to stay a step ahead of what might happen next.

It never occurred to me that I was rarely where I actually was.

Then, at a mindfulness seminar, someone handed us a small piece of chocolate and invited us to slow down.

Not an exercise to master.
Just an experiment to try.

Notice the smell, he said.
The taste.
The texture.

We took a bite and paid attention to what was happening, rather than rushing on to the next thing.

What struck me wasn’t the taste. It was how quickly interest dropped away.

A few moments in, I’d had enough.
I wasn’t trying.
There was nothing left to chase.

Until then, I’d assumed being present was something you did. Something you practised. Something you tried to maintain.

What I began to see was that presence is simply what’s left when thinking isn’t pulling you elsewhere.

And when that happens, things tend to regulate themselves.

Many people eat quickly not because they’re hungry, but because they’re elsewhere — mentally ahead, emotionally preoccupied, trying to get away from something they don’t want to feel.

We often use food to escape the moment we’re in, especially when it feels uncomfortable. But when we eat to get away from experience, we don’t really taste the food. We eat quickly, mechanically, hoping the feeling will disappear.

The irony is that feelings don’t need fixing.
They move on by themselves.

You’ve never been stuck in joy.
And you’ve never been stuck in discomfort either.

So when the urge to eat is really an urge to leave the moment, nothing dramatic is required.

Just pause.
Notice where you are.
Notice what you’re eating.

When attention returns, eating often slows on its own. Pleasure increases. The body lets you know when it’s had enough.

That’s the art of slow.

And it doesn’t take practice.
It just takes noticing.

That’s all I’m pointing to.