Time, Darkness, and Beauty
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When I worked for Facebook in Silicon Valley and lived in San Francisco, there were two routes to work; one was significantly shorter and the other significantly more beautiful.
Occasionally the direct highway would be so jammed that my map would send me the beautiful way. Picture me doing an elbow pull: “YAAAS!”
You guys. It probably took me a year to realize that I could simply choose to take the more beautiful way even though it was slower.
I worked for a company whose slogan was “move fast and break things.” I was conditioned for speed. I’m not blaming Facebook, I was totally aligned with this strategy.
When the option to take the scenic route finally occurred to me, I began shifting my drive.
I started slowly at first, opting for beauty when I really had no specific reason to rush. The more pleasant my commute became, the more I prioritized the longer way.
Yes, it took me 20% longer, but I was 100% happier.
One of the first things Vince and I did together was take a road trip. We turned on the “Avoid highways” for more scenic routes.
We noticed we were always happier on backroads. So for most of our relationship we have kept this setting on and usually leave plenty of time to take the longer way.
In a way, this transition from “maximally efficient goal-oriented outcomes” to “learning to take the scenic route” might be a metaphor for my entire life.
About six months ago I spent four days alone in a dark room.
One thing that happens alone in the dark is that time…
e x p a n d s.
Instead of “how efficiently can I shower, brush my teeth, and stretch each morning?” the question became “how slowly can I do these things?”
For one thing, these were the only tasks to do and if I rushed them, I’d spend the rest of the day twiddling my thumbs. Or pacing. Or worse: thinking.
In the dark, I began to explore taking my time.
When I came out of the dark, I intuitively began to find ways to take more “scenic routes” in life.
Case in point: I put my kindle away.
Now when I want a book, I take a meandering forty-minute drive through the Vermont countryside, to a magical bookstore & cafe.
I take all afternoon to browse, sip tea or soup, and talk to the owner about her favorite books. If I’m looking for something specific, she orders it for me, and I wait. The anticipation has become part of the pleasure.
I also have taken up good old fashioned letter writing. Since coming out of the dark I’ve handwritten hundreds of pages to friends and family.
Does this take more time? Of course. Much more. Especially the part where I wait a week or so for them to receive it. But the reward is immeasurable.
I slow down to feel into my friend. Without a delete key, I consider what I most want to say. I misspell words and cross things out. I doodle. I include stickers or other colorful paraphernalia. I creatively meditate on our relationship so much so that by the end, usually hours later, I feel as if I’ve spent the day cuddling, or crying, or holding hands with someone who might be thousands of miles away.
In a time when so many of our technologies have advanced, it’s actually amazing that we can still write letters; that the mail still works the way it does. What a privilege.
So yes, there are many ways I am learning to take the scenic routes in life. And of course there are still many ways I rush: running errands; doing workouts; sending email. All tasks that could become opportunities to connect—with others, with my body, with my thoughts, with the world around me—if I approached them with a “scenic route” mentality.
People often say it’s about the journey, not the destination. That sounds nice, but if I believe the destination is essential to my happiness, then of course I will rush.
But what is at stake when I put the goals of happiness and peace and fulfillment out there, up ahead? What’s the cost?
For me, it seems to be the pleasure of being alive. That’s a pretty big cost.
So I just have to ask myself, do I want to become happy? Or do I want to be happy? If it’s the latter, then I still have some changes to make, and some risks to take.
Let me end with this:
Ten years ago my friend Rhea began mailing me letters, as she does with all her friends.
I wrote her back, but it has taken me a decade to afford myself the pleasure of writing to more of my friends. What this is showing me is that there is no rush. Even when it comes to slowing down.
Reorienting from “striving” to “experiencing” is not itself another goal to achieve. That would be more of the same.
This post is not meant to be any kind of “should.” It is meant only to be a permission slip, an inspiration, or an invitation. If you’re curious about taking more scenic routes, so am I! Let’s hop on a covered wagon together and see what we discover.
I recorded an exploration to accompany this post for those moments when you are rushing around, but also wishing you could slow down.
Join me at an upcoming Breathwork Journey:
- Online Session: Fri, Feb 20th at 7pm ET
- In-Person Cacao & Breathwork for All (Warren, VT): Fri, Jan 30 at 6:30 pm ET
- In-Person Cacao & Breathwork for Women (Warren, VT): Thurs, Feb 12 at 6pm ET