Albicocca – Mirella's Way

I haven’t written in so long. A lot has been going on, I was exhausted, and – as life goes – I just didn’t have the energy to write. Yet, the topics I wanted to share were constantly spinning in my head. I kept jotting them down on a piece of paper.

There is one reflection in particular I wanted to share today. It’s another quote from my Stoic calendar: “Hurry humiliates” (Pospiech upokarza).

In a Constant Rush

I don’t know how others cope with the avalanche of tasks to do and places to be on time. I often find myself in a perpetual rush. I leave the house too late to get anywhere calmly. Every single morning, I promise myself I’ll wake up 15 minutes earlier and leave early enough to cycle to work without rushing.

On one hand, I actually enjoy that fast bike ride—when the streets are still empty, and I don’t have to look out for other cyclists. Often, thanks to the speed, I catch the rhythm of the green lights. That rush clears my mind and gives me the energy to start the day. On the other hand, I wish I didn’t have to ride fast; I wish I only did it when I felt like it.

It’s the same with other things, like cleaning. I don’t like cleaning, but I like it when it’s clean. Usually, I try to clean quickly, following a plan, performing the tasks almost automatically. Yet sometimes I look at my apartment and think it deserves more attention and heart. I take special care of my plants, which bring more life and a welcoming vibe to the space. I love taking care of them and watching them grow and thrive.

“Mom, Are We Late? Do We Need to Run?”

There is no room for mindfulness in a hurry. I know how crucial mindfulness is in life, which is why I try to practice it in what I do. I always try to be fully present when I play with my daughter. I truly believe that haste and the scattered energy that comes with it deeply affect the quality of our relationships.

My daughter always notices when I’m in a rush, making excuses that I still have something else to do. She hates it when I’m not 100% engaged in our playtime. Usually, we draw together or build something out of paper and cardboard. When I’m tired or have things left to do that I want to finish before our evening meal (which we usually eat around 6 PM), I just can’t stop thinking about them. When Gaja asks or begs me for something, and I reply with “in a minute” or don’t answer at all, the game loses its joy for her. She sees that I’m not engaged, and despite me physically being there, she starts playing by herself. She no longer needs me.

Other times, I get completely immersed, and we have so much fun together, but right in the middle of it, I suddenly remember that I left dinner on the stove. I jump up and run to the kitchen. Gaja is instantly snapped out of her play rhythm, out of the world she was in. She is on the verge of tears. I try to explain that something is burning and that I’ll be right back, but she has already been brutally pulled away from her world. Often, she doesn’t want to play anymore, and I am left with a sad realization: my daughter will remember from her childhood that mom used to cut playtime short because she had to run to the kitchen. Her dad is a much better playtime companion because when he plays, he truly plays.

The worst part isn’t just that I’m not 100% present; it’s that I’m teaching my child that this kind of behavior is okay. I’ve noticed that she, too, struggles to focus on certain tasks. Maybe they are just things she doesn’t like doing, but perhaps she would focus better if she didn’t see adults constantly failing to focus on what they are doing.

Like an Unwelcome Guest

Adults, of course, notice when we are in a hurry too. When we don’t focus on a conversation, we become superficial. I always feel like a guest who arrived at the wrong time when I talk to someone whose mind is elsewhere, looking as if they are rushing off somewhere. I try to end the conversation as quickly as possible because I feel like a nuisance—even when that person assures me they have time and are glad to talk. If that’s how I feel, others must feel the same way around me when I am rushed and mentally absent.

I always look with admiration at people who are truly mindful during a conversation. They are present in the here and now. If they are in a hurry, they communicate it clearly, avoiding being only half-present. There are two pairs of parents at my daughter’s school who do this. I love talking to them; I see them as a role model. I want to act that way too.

Years ago, in one of my first jobs—I was maybe 25 at the time—my boss told me I was “frenetic” (narwana). I would have never thought of myself that way, but the way I think is exactly what causes my lack of focus on a single task. Even though another 25 years have passed since I heard that word, mindfulness remains my weakness.

At Most, We’ll Be Late

When I’m late, I usually run, falling into a sort of panic attack, as if the world will end if I don’t make it on time. Of course, I hate being late—I consider it a lack of respect for others who are on time. However, that feeling of panic is awful, and I don’t want to pass it on to my daughter. Recently, we were walking to an after-school activity, and she asked me anxiously: “Mom, are we late? Do we need to run?”. It made me feel terribly sad.

I decided that this is something I need to work through. Admittedly, I have a very loose relationship with time and clocks; I rarely look at them, which often causes me to leave the house too late. But my relationship with time is a topic for a completely different post.

“Hurry humiliates”—these words hit me so powerfully that I stopped telling my daughter that we have to rush because it’s late.

So be it. At most, we’ll be late.