If you’re looking at my credentials on paper (which is all you can do in my little corner of the internet here), you might not guess that I am from a military family. My father was a U.S. Army captain and then worked as a defense contractor for most of my life.
Those who were raised in a military household know how inevitably and irrevocably the mindset leaves it’s imprint on the way you encounter your life. In many ways, the imprint is one we try to scrape away; a latent side effect that descends when young soldiers raise children amidst the distress they are subjected too. I have an infinite respect and sympathy for those who serve and are still serving, regardless of my aversion to the often violent goals that employ them. I have met innumerable G.I.’s in my lifetime and understand the full spectrum of motivation that causes someone to join up. For many that I have known, it was a desire to become a person who serves the greater good. I think that’s a motivation we all carry within us and can identify with whether it’s fulfilled or not.
My father is G.I. through and through even though he left his military career much younger than most with his background. Joining was the first chapter in his story about a young man who wanted life to be an adventure; to be set upon the world and be able to enact his will in it. The story is filled with trials and triumphs; and is one of the first tales that inspired me to want to tell stories in the first place. Although you can probably spot my dad’s military training from a mile away, he is unfailingly gentle and kind in a way I have rarely found in most men, most people. He would probably tell you his greatest triumphs are his family and his lifelong commitment to fatherhood. In all of his jobs, I believe his motivation was really to be a hero and I can say that he has succeeded in that, at least to those who know and love him.
The military was above all a pathway for him to learn how to be brave and capable, a jump point for his personal legend. I always say that he raised his two daughters like most fathers raise sons, encouraging us to be honorable and steadfast and ambitious in all things. And if it has to be taught, he taught it to us with the care and attention that comes with being trained to handle life or death situations for most of your life. Every goal has a protocol. Every protocol has a method. Every method has steps.
Because of this I am a good man in a storm. I have complete faith in my ability to move forward when backed into a corner. When life speeds up, so do I and while this serves me well in an emergency, emergencies end and it becomes very difficult for me to slow down. I busy myself with picking up the pieces: my pieces, other people’s pieces, pieces that don’t even need to be picked up…without spending any time to consider the rest and space I actually am needing. It’s too scary, too overwhelming to turn inward so I dive outward. I’ve always been like this, always thought that maybe if I can just create enough of a blur around me when I feel like I’m drowning that my negative feelings can never quite catch up to me (spoiler alert: they do.)
Lately in the midst of a blur that has been hard for me to pull the reins back on, something my dad repeated often throughout my life has taken on a new meaning. It’s not an uncommon phrase, especially to military children; “Slow is smooth. Smooth is fast.” Dad has always had an eye for my penchant to let my anxiety drive my life with a lead foot. He applies this phrase frequently like a parking brake when I’m caught up.
“Slow is smooth. Smooth is fast.” The saying was apparently born in the SEAL teams to teach newcomers that to rush against pressure is a natural instinct but often one that causes your downfall. Rushing causes accidents, causes burnout, causes missing links. The difference between success and failure is giving yourself one moment of space to breathe and then decide what is important. The time you lose is infinitely less important than what you gain within it.
Generally what follows my dissociative sprinting (both literal and figurative sprinting), is a crash I cannot pull myself out of for days or weeks. But today I turn one year older and it feels like a good time to take a moment and decide what is important. I don’t want to remember my life in a blur ten years from now, even if some of it has been incredibly painful and scary as of late. I don’t want to keep blinding myself to my feelings by cleaning out the garage.
Slow is smooth. Smooth is fast. Perhaps my deliverance will be found in the knowledge that I gave this experience its due diligence too; that I was brave enough to pay attention to the value of going through it.
Slow is smooth. Perhaps my anxieties are not being outrun by a never ending to do list but being caused by one.
Smooth is fast. Perhaps this loss will feel like love if treated with the same care.
Slow is smooth. Smooth is fast. Perhaps applying enough of that love is what I really need right now anyway.
The Prompts
Do you feel like you’re racing against time when you go through your day?
Do you remember what you ate for breakfast two days ago?
What do you think you will remember about this time in your life in ten years? in twenty?