Unhurried

the necessity of not hustling

From 2003 to 2004 I lived a slow life in a small village on the Oregon coast. Everything I thought I knew about life/god/myself had just fallen away, so I started over. I rented a tiny cottage beside the sea with an ocean view and wrote poems, walked the beach, listened, watched birds, cleaned motel rooms, prayed, explored the forest, read books, wrote letters, and started editing manuscripts and coaching authors. I grieved my old life. I questioned many things. I delighted in the world around me. I savored life.

After a decade of diligently trying to figure out “what to be when I grew up,” my path was finally clear—I’m here to love this beautiful, heart-breaking world and let poetry and prayer flow through me. I felt at home in myself and in the world in a way I’d never experienced before. It was delicious. Then, in 2004, I moved on.

Despite what I had come to know so deeply, I found myself pulled into the various ways we abandon things like making art, being who we are, and doing what we’re here to do—

• a marriage that demanded I give up myself to take care of & serve my partner

• the embedded belief that love puts other first and self last

• relocating to a region with a high cost of living that required more income

• working long hours

• not having time to myself

• not having a physical space of my own

• being focused on other people’s needs 24/7, at home and in business

• the cultural belief that making and enjoying art is not essential (a luxury; something for those who have extra time and resources)

• having a child without having a village

• the ingrained capitalist-Christian belief that if we work hard now we’ll achieve having more resources/time/energy later

• trauma

• living in modern American hustle-grind culture (which perpetuates most of the above)

• self-doubt (which is inevitable when we’re living all the above)

You could say these things were detours. Or that they were the perfect path to where I stand I now. Or both. Regardless, as this year begins I find myself once again starting over in a new place, grieving, listening, praying, and exploring. I’ve been circling back to the poems I wrote in that year beside the sea (including the one below). The knowing that was clear then is present now, but twenty-two years have changed things:

• My soul is now absolutely insistent that I live my true life

• My body-mind is no longer able or willing to pay the price of doing otherwise

• Ingrained cultural beliefs have been disrupted by two more decades of reality

• I no longer believe in “later”

So despite the urgent reasons why I should shift into high gear, press on in hustle-grind, and ignore Poetry’s call, I’m here instead. Choosing the new story. Tending my body. Going for walks. Showing up at the page. Listening for what is true. Practicing being unhurried. Daring to prioritize necessities we’re taught are luxuries. Praying this for all of us. The space to be we are.

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🎶 I believe poetry is a song that is meant to be heard as well as read. A poem is a journey for the senses as well as the mind. I invite you to sit back and experience me reading this one to you. You can listen here:

Luxurious Necessities

Time to think,
time to ponder.
Paths to walk,
space to wander.

A window to look out,
a chair to sit in.
A place to explore,
fresh air to breathe again.

Quiet like a cool drink,
silence like a massage.
Stillness to soak in,
relief from the barrage.

Solitude to sink into;
a place to expand.
Pleasant faces to meet,
with little demand.

A life that leaves room
for a person to be human.
Wide enough for kindness,
deep enough for freedom.

—Kai Madrone

November 2003

Pisgah National Forest, North Carolina