I have noticed a disturbing tendency in myself lately. I am “moving through” things. You know what I mean, right? You’re reading a book to your kid and flipping over two pages at a time hoping they won’t notice, because it’s a repetitive f-ing book anyway and you’ve got things to do. You’re eating yogurt while standing up and simultaneously reading because it takes too long to stirfry burdock and wild greens. You’re internally rolling your eyes when your child takes up an interest in quilting, because oh my god, are you kidding? Do you have any idea WHAT A TIME-CONSUMING PROJECT THAT IS?
But, at the same time, you have no idea what you’re cutting all of these corners for. At the end of the day you’re just napping, or reading, or checking facebook. What was the point of all the hurrying? And wait just a second, isn’t it freaking AWESOME that my eight-year-old wants to QUILT? What happened to me? Because I say “you”, but I mean “me”. Me, the one who used to live in a hut made of twigs I’d built myself heated by a lard-can-stove I’d made myself, writing my college papers on a manual typewriter because I didn’t have electricity, eating groundnuts I’d painstakingly dug and sipping tea made with water tapped from trees because I didn’t trust the cleanliness of the stream. Now I somehow don’t have time to read the even-numbered pages of Green Eggs and Ham?