Slow down now blog

I received an email from a friend yesterday who warned me of Christmas drivers who will kill you on their way to being charitable. He got into a car crash on Monday and broke his ribs, sternum and neck. Now he has to keep so still in order not to become paralyzed.

For me driving is a defensive activity. I know that I could just have well been (or may become) a victim of a multi-tasking-over-caffeinated-mobile-phone-talking driver who is late. While not driving at all is the answer, it’s not really such an easy option in a complex society. Slow is a serious topic and being present may just save your life. (Get well soon Ian.)

Another friend sent me an email in response to my cover story The secret to creativity at iMedia Connection this month. He says he keeps looking for ways to run his life at a slower pace. It’s interesting we use a word like “run.” Perhaps we should be “walking” our lives.

This friend of mine spent years in Kenya and he related how most people there have a very different sense of time.

Once he saw an old goat herder on a hillside. Most of the time just leaning on a pole and watching the goats is considered a worthwhile activity. Now you’d think this job is boring, but it isn’t. Which of course brings up the topic of what exactly is boredom and our need for constant stimulation.

What my friend Matt found remarkable about this goat herder was just how relaxed his face was. It had none of the tensions that we see in those walking about. Have you noticed how many people look as if they are in pain? The mouth is tight. The brow is furrowed. But this goat herder was genuinely relaxed and smiling.

Matt thought about those harried stock brokers and lawyers running in pursuit of something-or-other back home in the United States. How many of them had such a calm, relaxed, and smiling face? Most of those elders made a few key decisions, but spent most of their day in the shade of palm trees not doing much.

There is a lesson in there somewhere. I may not spend all day leaning on a pole, but anglers, gardeners, knitters and others know how do appreciate going slow.

Tags: Talk Back by Christopher
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I once gave a talk to a small group of about thirty people. I asked them if they thought that a large proportion of drivers on the road were incompetent or reckless. Most people agreed that there were. I then asked them if they thought of themselves as an incompetent or reckless drivers. None did.

It’s a funny thing everyone in the room considered themselves a better driver than most. How could this state of affairs come to be?

I expect that the term “good driver” means different things to different people. Each driver may have developed special skills. Some are proud of being able to be the fifth car to go over an intersection after the light had changed to red.

There are those multitasking drivers who are putting on makeup, talking on the phone, listening to the radio, and mediating an infantile civil war in the back seat.

Then there are the drivers who have developed superior concentration. They watch the road so assiduously that pedestrians and crosswalks are invisible to them. Others have such religious faith in their safety that they double park in the middle of the road.

Drivers with a more musical proclivity delight in honking their horns. Some have evolved extra sensory perception, and, like whales, communicate with each other by the high-decibel vibrations. One of those drivers just drove by. I am grateful that my living room windows have stopped rattling. Here in Northern California we sometimes mistake this vibratory communication for earthquakes. You see people are different, and what makes a good driver is in the eye of the beholder.

Slow driving should be engaged in with extreme caution. It does tend to aggravate those in a hurry. Now, I’ve been told never criticize the person, only the behavior. Sometimes, being in a hurry can happen even to those who have realized their inner slow person.

But driving gives us a chance to practice politeness, patience, and generosity. We can demonstrate the slow way.

The rear view mirror’s function remains opaque to some. Have you ever been in a parking structure stuck behind driver who finds it necessary to check every filled parking place for signs of movement before ambling to the next one?

I have. And it can test your patience. But we slow types can try to practice patience. I don’t want to get all superior about this because I have failed to be slow on many occasions. Slow is more of a direction than a destination.

I do find that if I let others go before me; if I let pedestrians walk across the crosswalk; if I give my parking space to someone, they appreciate it. I get a nod or a wave, and that makes me feel good. It makes my day much more pleasant.

Far be it from me to tell you what to do, but I just can’t manage to listen to the radio, or talk on the phone, or even think of very much when I am driving. When I drive, I just drive. I should point out I am a man, and can only do one thing at a time. But even if the environment won’t let me drive as slowly as I would like, at least I can practice politeness—some of the time.

Tags: Talk Back by Christopher
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How do you feel about putting gas in your car? Have you given it much thought? Going to the gas station seems a necessary evil.

You pull into the gas station as attendants rush out, clean your windshield, pump up your tires, polish your hood and fill your car with the gasoline of your choice. They call you sir, (or madam, as the case may be). You sit in your car, pasha-like, while neatly-dressed attendants minister to your vehicle.

In return, you dispense gratitude in the form of a tip. With a friendly wave you pull onto an empty freeway. And away you go. Is that how it is for you? When the world was just that much slower, you could expect that kind of service. I know, I worked in a gas station, only we called it a petrol station.

I was at the gas station filling up my car yesterday. No longer are friendly employees there to floss your car and ask after your wellbeing. No longer are there employees. The staff is reduced to just one sullen human in a bullet-proof box.

It was a clear case of multitasking. She was on the phone while an irate customer was quizzing her on her knowledge of the ingredients of oil for her car. There was a lot of head shaking and gesturing going on. This was taking some time.

A line was beginning to form—possibly, a line of murderers.

Being a gas-station attendant is a high-risk job. It is close to top of the list of occupations that one is likely to be murdered in. But murder is not the only hazard.

I once pulled into a gas station in rural Tennessee, and a rather bosomy girl was “checking” the pumps. She had a cigarette in hand and you could see the gasoline vapors rising from gas tanks in the humid heat. Perhaps in Tennessee they have employee nonchalant training? But in my part of the world, the sullen customer service is the latest fad.

The exclusive gas station has not yet been invented—but of course it will. A yet to be realized category of fame is gas-station-attendant-to-the-stars, or a personal-gas-pumper (PGP). No status-conscious individual will be without their PGP. As gas prices increase, there will be loan officers at each station to go over your last three years of tax returns to see if you qualify for a loan to fill up.

Testy, is the word I use to describe the general ambiance of my local gas station. Everyone is in a hurry. Everyone wants gas in their car, but doesn’t really want to go to the bother of putting it in. Perhaps a sign over the station would help: Abandon hope all ye who enter here, or Patience shall set you free.

Of course, patience does set you free. The woman who was attempting to communicate with the inhabitant of the bullet-proof box was not doing well. Steam was coming from her ears.

“Maybe if you got off the phone, this would go faster,” she yelled above the din of a group of newly-arrived motorcyclists. They were having a competition to see whose motorbike could make the loudest noise.

More murderers were joining the line behind her. They were starting to finger their weapons.

Miss bullet-proof was shaking her head and saying that it was impossible for her to get off the phone.

By this time, the gas station was ever more popular. Its magnet-like charm was attracting more cars and the lines were growing. I’m sure that even people who didn’t really need a fill-up were joining. You know how it is. When something is popular, more people are attracted. It’s like the person standing in the street looking up at a tall building. Soon a small group has gathered to see what-in-the-world she is looking at.

A rather portly high-school girl lumbered over to the line of murders and tried her canned sales pitch on them. None seem interested in supporting her school polo club, or yachting excursion to Aruba, or whatever it was she was trying to get support for. The prize of a Twinkie as a thank you gift was not enough of an incentive. Giving sugar to a line of impatient murderers is never a good thing. Apparently, her sales training hadn’t covered this point.

Eventually, I made it to the pump, but the nozzle was tantalizingly out of reach. I discovered this only after putting my credit card in the machine. Security is tight. I punched in my card number, my zip code, my social security number, the social security number of all of my relatives and friends, agreed to the nine-page conditions and terms of service, waived my rights to revenge, keyed in my shirt size, sexual preference, and my favorite brand of toilet paper. When I realized the hose wouldn’t reach, I managed to cancel the transaction and find another pump.

But the next pump I found was grumpy. It was in no mood to accept my card. Do they cleverly build sullenness into the mechanics? I joined the line of murders to pay by cash.

Have you noticed how things change? Eventually, the steamed-up woman decided on the right colored plastic bottle of oil for her car. She decided not to pay by check as she had first intended, but moved on to a lengthy credit-card transaction. The line of murders had dissipated. I paid my $20 and was able to buy enough gasoline to get me back up the hill and home. No, I don’t have a big car.

Who needs entertainment when you can hang out at your gas station and see life? It’s the slow way.

The bullet-proof inmate is probably still on the phone. It has to be awfully lonely in there.

Tags: Talk Back by Christopher
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