Most people in this country hurry too much.
I know because I have been one of them.
For much of my adult life, I've broken dozens of glasses and plates each year while whipping them into and out of the dishwasher-thinking all the while Get it done, get it done.
I began to realize that this was perhaps not the right way to live when I got to thinking, one day, about what they might inscribe upon my tombstone.
I'd seen a few memorable epitaphs along the way: "The Father of Cheap Postage," on a gravestone in Cambridge, Massachusetts; "I Told You I was Sick," on one in Key West.
When I realized that "She Got A Lot Done" might very well be the most they could chisel onto my little wedge of granite when the time came, I began to think it might be time to try living another way.
And so, for the last 12 years, between the crashes and the shatterings- no one changes overnight-I have taken time out each week to sit down and write about whatever crosses my radar, whether it be joy or sorrow or hemorrhaging household appliance.
And in the end it has slowed me down some, and maybe slowed down the people who read what I write. Certainly we have needed slowing down.
A couple of Springs back, my next-door neighbor, Will, two-and-a-half, hosted a gathering of tykes at his house. At one point during the festivities, a little boy lay down on the ground, Will mounted his sturdy tricycle and ran over him, not once but twice-right over the child¹s tender baby tummy.
Many civilized and humane parents rushed forth, expressing shock, and lending aid to the trike-trampled tot, and asking Will what exactly he thought he was doing.
His little face took on a ruminative expression.
"You know," he answered, "I looked down. And I saw him lying there. But..."
Well, if you've read the book's title, you know the rest of Will's sentence.
This book is written for all those people who, driving straight ahead, thinking Get it done, Get it done, could use a reminder to slow down, and take notice of what-or who-they're passing through.
To them, then, and to the still-wondrous and new-to-me notion that, approached the right way, bathing a dirty milk glass can be as soothing and restorative as bathing a baby.
©Copyright 2002-2011 Terry Marotta, All Rights Reserved.