Correction: Two of Wands, not Two of Swords.

When reading too fast, we may have the tendency to make simple, subconscious, technical mistakes.
Of that sort, I made the other day. A careful, slow and steady survey replaced, in the realization, a cross of conflict and dismay.

Ah, if only I would learn this, already–

Relax. Take in a single breath, long and slow, like we do when we smoke.
Hold it in. Don’t let it go.
Now count down: ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, and so on.

At zero, breathe out.
But, careful now. Fast here is not the way to go.

We are taught so long to live at the pace of an electical pulse. The firing of a nerve, a synapse, a single thought. We run races around races trying to get there before anything else.

Don’t we recall? Evolution who birthed us is slow. Tracing patterns in tree lines and decals in wing tips and colors of eyes or shades of blindness in the dark. Fading white to black through every gradient of grey over thousands of cycles, years on years without end.

Not six months ago, half-alone, in the middle of nowhere — I learned how long an antique saw takes to cut through a cedar seven times as tall as us. Narrow and young it was, but the sun was setting before its green limbs were cut off. I kept a piece and oiled it, and oiled it, and oiled it. And even now, a red stain still soaks into the cloth when I rub it down.

Such a slow and steady methodology we come from.
Why do we think we can, must, ought to rush around?

The grinding, grating, burning tension in the expectancy of a single kiss lasts as long as the moment between the thought and the delay. We have learned, socially, to stretch it out beyond much reason, to the point of discomfort and suffering.

But other things at a better pace stretch before us like yawns and years. A hundred times better slow and easy than the stress of building up the moment.

A steady rhythm beats against our interlaced hearts like the ocean on the rocks of this pacific shore. They rattle, clink, and clatter against one another. Slowly, those stones will wear down to become sand across the spans. Other lands with other names where other lovers try, just as hard, to breathe slow and steady against a hotly rising tide.

Have you, too, breathed in again?
How long did it take?


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