Though I’ve long been an advocate for the ‘art of slow living’, I’ve not actually been living slowly myself. Elongating the ‘do as I say, not as I do’ scenario to new lengths. Adding an extra layer of guilt to the feeling that though this year was a vast improvement on the year previous, I still haven’t quite found my stride. Struggling still to embody the change I wish to see both inside and out.
My husband and I had been struggling financially for the past few years, scraping by despite the constant output of energy we’ve invested in our career-focused rhythms. Though things had slowly begun to flower, it was clear we couldn’t flourish in the life we’d built. Something had to drastically change in terms of circumstance and habit, or we’d undoubtedly sink.
When we arrived the waves were wild and the sky was billowing with indigo coloured blue. The van was parked up on a hill overlooking it all, the smokestack billowing smoke through its little white roof. We had exchanged warm emails with the couple who owned it, they were about our age, exactly our size and had been living in the van full time. We walked into the warmth of a cozy fire, greeted with genuine smiles and with the smell of percolating coffee filling the air. It felt, almost immediately, like home. The four of us sat there like old friends, grinning shyly and sharing our life plans around the fire.