Make Slow Moments
We’re all just monkeys hurtling through space, let’s slow down and enjoy it.
There’s an exact moment in the woods when the sun first yawns its early morning strands of light through the trees. Branches and trunks split in two — one side blazing gold, the other a deep umber. Shadows and peaks of fire undulate through the ground; the troughs of turned soil compete with golden-tipped piles of leaves. On clearer days, lavender skies blanket the lighter textures of the forest in a haze of red wine.
Of course, this moment occurs all over the world, but I first experienced it on my bike, in a small tangle of trails near Detroit, Michigan. In a moment of agony after ripping my soul up a too-early-for-this-shit climb, I stopped to rest, soaking in the beauty of the rising morning. Thoughts of work and mortgages dissolved into nature. Mother earth pushed my reset button and embraced me with the comforting coo of rustling trees.
Each season I work to catch this moment and in doing so have discovered a distinct impression left by each natural cycle — a thumbprint fed by the architecture of the ecosystems and weather collaborating in the ultimate theatrical debut.
In Spring, aromas of bulging flora descend in a cascade of pheromones and pollen. If plants could moan you’d hear the proof of the fecundity of trees. Here, the moment is brimming with potential, with energy, and with the hope of lush and fruitful happenings. It’s often cold… sometimes it’s a bone-chilling cold — noses run and ears burn in rosy curls from sharp winds. Indeed, few glove brands can defend the delicate composition of a modern man’s working hands. And yet, the anticipation of the coming summer pulse makes this cold pain a bearable, almost enjoyable stress.
Suddenly, dust, sweat, and the oppressive odor of a long-ago forgotten pair of socks in the car announce Summer. This version of the moment is teeming with an eagerness, the faint sense of childhood, of swinging from vines into crystal streams. Humidity brings the low-hanging scents of a close-by lake — fish, fog, and the musk of stagnant mud. Summer in the woodlands resonates with primal cravings and a short stay holds tight, leaving you with a lasting resentment of highways, computers, and people. This is the kind of shit that makes you pissed off about having to commute to work.
Along rolls Autumn when the lazy drift of dying leaves signals the coming comfort of fireplaces and hot chocolate (or a dark porter). Decorated by the casual warmth of bonfires and dusty flannels, Fall is the slow-yet-usually-too-goddamn-fast moment of them all. There’s a cramped sense of fleeting light as the occasional evening ride hits you like a fox chasing a frightened rabbit. Humid blankets of Summer are replaced by cool drafts of air, carrying particles of the decaying forest floor. Soon, the moment will be different, obscured by a sheet of blinding white, but for now, the forest floor is the most brilliant blaze of colors you might ever care to see.
Finally, the daunting exposure to the freezing, sterile breath of Old Man Winter. Battling the pain, the energy-sucking cold, this moment is realized as the most hostile of the group. Why does it always remind me of harder times? Of old wars and dusty wood floors with ancient gaps and knots? Maybe it’s that the path forward is ambiguous like a fuzzy old picture, obscured by a snowfield. Or maybe there’s a little thing in all of us, a deep sense of survival brought on by the brutal licks of nature that activates an ancient lineage of awe. In reality, it’s likely just a tribute to those hard fellows of yesteryear that used to have to wipe their asses in an outhouse out here. While Winter has transformed the moment into the cinematic experience of a bygone arctic explorer, I find myself just as transfixed by the modern juxtaposition of having to return, yet again, to a chair and computer.
Moments like these bring a sense of enjoyment that isn’t easily found in our every day, sometimes desk-bound lives.
The speed of mountain biking is addicting. In fact, it’s the closest I’ve come to the feeling of flight. Like a bird leaping from a branch into a speeding drift, the foliage of the trail morphs into long blurry lines as the buzz of wind fills my senses. Seemingly unbound by gravity, my mind focuses on micro-second observations — a snake-shaped root, a loose fist-sized rock, a scampering chipmunk.
For those of us that sling through nature — using it as a conduit to go faster, do more, beat the other guy or girl — it’s far too easy to take the experience for granted. We get caught up in our lives, breaking away for a quick sprint through the park, chasing personal bests, or fitting a workout in between meetings. Yet, there’s magic in slowing down to appreciate the absurdity of life sometimes.
It’s okay to slow down to find your moment. Snap that picture or write a journal entry. Take a mental freeze frame of that beautiful field of wildflowers. Your 90-year-old self will thank you for the memories.
