The Ache For Slow Beauty

"Wonder - is not precisely Knowing." Emily Dickinson

(art by Nikoleta Sekulovic)

This morning I read a poem I had never read before by a poet I had never heard of. It was entitled “The door: anticipation of wisdom” by Bulgarian poet Kapka Kassaboua. The lines that struck deep in me, like piercing arrows were:

One day, you will doubt the exactness 
of your movements,
the accuracy of your sudden age.
You will ache for slow beauty
to save you from your quick, quick life. 

Everything these days is rushing past. The school year is nearly over. So many people, friends and colleagues, will be leaving to work at other schools next year. Most likely, I will be in second grade, starting from scratch all over again with a new grade level and a new team. My Father’s memory is worsening.

In this, I am struggling to keep my depression at bay amidst all the changes, which are all a kind of dying, a kind of grief. I read the words of that poem and think: Yes, that is where I am right now. Aching for slow beauty.

When I went out to my car, I heard two birds calling to each other from distant trees. I heard crickets chirping and frogs croaking in my neighbor’s pond.

The world is ever changing, ever evolving, ever turning. There is both a comfort and a melancholy to this reality, this continuing passage of time.

It is difficult when one is not a natural optimist, hopeful or often secure in oneself. It can be exhausting existing against time - the ever passing of time. Living in the moment with all it contains can be such a heavy burden. I feel as if I am constantly being beaten and battered down. How does one find the strength, the reserves within oneself to keep going?