What Matters Comes Slowly
Over the years we are all worn away of excess and made elemental. To survive this process, we often need to hold each other up in order to discover and return to what matters. — Mark Nepo
Mark Nepo has been a guide to me for years through his book Drinking from the River of Light. I brought it with me when I traveled to Northern Michigan a month ago; I remember carefully choosing which books to pack, and Nepo’s work pulled my attention. My body knew.
One of his prompts invites you to chart a constellation of moments—those that will hold you up when you fall. These are the times when you feel deeply connected to life, safe, grounded, and at peace. The following are my own foundational experiences that occurred over the 14 days as a newly motherless daughter.
what matters comes slowly
- the scent of fresh dirt in my sister’s backyard
- B’s scent, lying on his chest, Bon Iver, the open window, the late sun
- back at my apartment in Chicago that smells of frankincense, cypress, patchouli and palo santo
- the first sign of warm air rides in and reminds me of morning island air
- inhaling the lilacs while light tears a slit in the clouds covering Lake Michigan—everything turns blue, purple and pink, like a bruise
- every once in a while the wind moves the cloud and the rain walks
- N’s embrace when I told her the news. I was able to cry with her. “Oo child…” her voice
- two gift packages arrived from friends in Michigan
- eight flights of skipping a step, heart pounding, alive
A bouquet from my dear friends when I returned to the city