“Hurry, hurry, hurry” I said to my children, three times like Henny Penny. “We’re going to be late for school,” I said, as if the sky was falling. During the work-kids years, “hurry” was the number one word out of my mouth every morning, and later in the day, when we rushed to after school activities. Rush, rush, rush. And then the work-kids life was over. Now in my third stage of life, I still rush around aplenty, tending house and home, husband and dogs. But then I settle, listen to the leaves rustle in the wind, practice my flute, perhaps get a little reading and writing done. Sometimes I miss the “hurry” years, but the “rush” I enjoy these days is from creativity. That is, until the end of the day when we say, “Hurry up,” to our dogs, before we tuck in bed for the night. “Hurry up!” our command for them to relieve themselves—to rush outside and get the job done. Some things don’t change, or should I say, some people.
I grew up with a habit of rushing taught to me by my parents and an innate anxiety. I could rush for no reason at all, rush when someone was waiting for me (even if they told me to take my time), rush to arrive early, rush to get dressed, rush to get undressed. Thank the gods for meditation. It's the only thing that has ever slowed me down.
I never expected to be a stay-at-home mom, and mostly I wasn’t. But how much easier life would have been for me and the kids if I hadn’t had to make money.
Being a single parent, for me at least, meant always rushing. I yelled, “Hurry, we’re going to be late!” every single morning as we left for school and work.
We got up an hour or two earlier than my circadian rhythm dictated. These days my greatest luxury is waking up when I want to. I’m intentional in structuring my day; plenty of time for spontaneity and very few appointments on the calendar.
I sometimes say that I have PTSD from those mornings, though I’m sure that’s a disservice to anyone with real PTSD. There were days I’d drive around the corner after dropping the kids at school and indulge in five minutes of crying before I got it together to go to work.
Rush is up there with hate, condescension, and being an asshole for no reason; my list of things I hope never to do again.
As Intact Animal, I wrote a song called No Tengo Prisa. You can find it on Spotify. The title is Spanish and translates to “I’m not in a rush”. The lyrics are an ode to conscientiously slowing life down. It’s what we chose when we traded the hustle and bustle of Los Angeles for the peace and tranquility of rural Andalucía. The chorus states my intent clearly, “I can take back my time. I can make my own rules. I can make it all slow down. No tengo prisa.” A rumination of what I’ve internalized here. It was recorded with my man in Montreal, a musician’s musician. We work well together, as evidenced by the few dozen quality songs in my catalogue. He has been a fixture of the Quebec music scene for decades, so he knows everyone. Through his contacts, I was lucky to record one of my tracks, Make It Right, at a well-known studio in Morin Heights, a town made famous for another facility, Le Studio, where legendary Canadian prog-rock band, Rush, recorded their biggest hits.
It has been six years since we worked together. Now he is planning to pack up and come live near us for a spell. He will bring his skills, fancy gear, and enthusiasm to our little country paradise. I already feel the creative juices percolating, jolting my dormant music muscle back into action.
As unresolved emotions and unsatisfactory words erupted into action, vague anxiety shifted to concrete fear. Her sense of self drained away, leaving a limp, empty vessel for those minutes as time stood still.
Enveloped in a blanket of numbness, she stood up, moving automatically into the bathroom. Standing before the mirror she felt the blood rush back, her eyes growing hot. A tingling gathered at the nape of her neck and radiated across her shoulders and down her spine.
Suddenly, she became aware of differences: between the cold tiles and warm wood, between hard and soft, light and shadow. Stillness punctuated by the sound of a cigarette being lit, then an exhale, a waft of smoke.
Her mind felt unusually clear; no more conflicting feelings to obscure the way forward.
Leaving immediately was not an option. Walk, don’t run, she had learned. There were loose ends to tie up and amends to be made; the fear of losing someone again was too ingrained. Besides, something so drastic must not be rushed; a plan needed to be put in place, one step after the next. And then she could go far, far away.
I miss reading so fervently that I had to put my hand over the next paragraph to stop my eyes darting ahead.
I used to love staying up late to find out the ending. These days, if I try to read in bed I fall asleep or reach for instagram to look at something I don’t have to concentrate on.
I remember I stayed up all night to read the last Harry Potter book. I had just turned 18, and my friend drove us, along with my brother, to buy it when it launched at midnight.
We vowed not to sleep until we’d read the book. In the end, it was so late in the morning when we finished that we just powered on with the day.
Last year, my boyfriend took me to the Harry Potter studios for my birthday. He had never read the books or seen the films. He normally works really long hours but the week leading up to our visit, he was off sick, so we were able to rush through the films in the evenings. One night we watched three. It was one of the best weeks of my life!
“Hurry, hurry, hurry” I said to my children, three times like Henny Penny. “We’re going to be late for school,” I said, as if the sky was falling. During the work-kids years, “hurry” was the number one word out of my mouth every morning, and later in the day, when we rushed to after school activities. Rush, rush, rush. And then the work-kids life was over. Now in my third stage of life, I still rush around aplenty, tending house and home, husband and dogs. But then I settle, listen to the leaves rustle in the wind, practice my flute, perhaps get a little reading and writing done. Sometimes I miss the “hurry” years, but the “rush” I enjoy these days is from creativity. That is, until the end of the day when we say, “Hurry up,” to our dogs, before we tuck in bed for the night. “Hurry up!” our command for them to relieve themselves—to rush outside and get the job done. Some things don’t change, or should I say, some people.
I grew up with a habit of rushing taught to me by my parents and an innate anxiety. I could rush for no reason at all, rush when someone was waiting for me (even if they told me to take my time), rush to arrive early, rush to get dressed, rush to get undressed. Thank the gods for meditation. It's the only thing that has ever slowed me down.
I never expected to be a stay-at-home mom, and mostly I wasn’t. But how much easier life would have been for me and the kids if I hadn’t had to make money.
Being a single parent, for me at least, meant always rushing. I yelled, “Hurry, we’re going to be late!” every single morning as we left for school and work.
We got up an hour or two earlier than my circadian rhythm dictated. These days my greatest luxury is waking up when I want to. I’m intentional in structuring my day; plenty of time for spontaneity and very few appointments on the calendar.
I sometimes say that I have PTSD from those mornings, though I’m sure that’s a disservice to anyone with real PTSD. There were days I’d drive around the corner after dropping the kids at school and indulge in five minutes of crying before I got it together to go to work.
Rush is up there with hate, condescension, and being an asshole for no reason; my list of things I hope never to do again.
As Intact Animal, I wrote a song called No Tengo Prisa. You can find it on Spotify. The title is Spanish and translates to “I’m not in a rush”. The lyrics are an ode to conscientiously slowing life down. It’s what we chose when we traded the hustle and bustle of Los Angeles for the peace and tranquility of rural Andalucía. The chorus states my intent clearly, “I can take back my time. I can make my own rules. I can make it all slow down. No tengo prisa.” A rumination of what I’ve internalized here. It was recorded with my man in Montreal, a musician’s musician. We work well together, as evidenced by the few dozen quality songs in my catalogue. He has been a fixture of the Quebec music scene for decades, so he knows everyone. Through his contacts, I was lucky to record one of my tracks, Make It Right, at a well-known studio in Morin Heights, a town made famous for another facility, Le Studio, where legendary Canadian prog-rock band, Rush, recorded their biggest hits.
It has been six years since we worked together. Now he is planning to pack up and come live near us for a spell. He will bring his skills, fancy gear, and enthusiasm to our little country paradise. I already feel the creative juices percolating, jolting my dormant music muscle back into action.
As unresolved emotions and unsatisfactory words erupted into action, vague anxiety shifted to concrete fear. Her sense of self drained away, leaving a limp, empty vessel for those minutes as time stood still.
Enveloped in a blanket of numbness, she stood up, moving automatically into the bathroom. Standing before the mirror she felt the blood rush back, her eyes growing hot. A tingling gathered at the nape of her neck and radiated across her shoulders and down her spine.
Suddenly, she became aware of differences: between the cold tiles and warm wood, between hard and soft, light and shadow. Stillness punctuated by the sound of a cigarette being lit, then an exhale, a waft of smoke.
Her mind felt unusually clear; no more conflicting feelings to obscure the way forward.
Leaving immediately was not an option. Walk, don’t run, she had learned. There were loose ends to tie up and amends to be made; the fear of losing someone again was too ingrained. Besides, something so drastic must not be rushed; a plan needed to be put in place, one step after the next. And then she could go far, far away.
I miss reading so fervently that I had to put my hand over the next paragraph to stop my eyes darting ahead.
I used to love staying up late to find out the ending. These days, if I try to read in bed I fall asleep or reach for instagram to look at something I don’t have to concentrate on.
I remember I stayed up all night to read the last Harry Potter book. I had just turned 18, and my friend drove us, along with my brother, to buy it when it launched at midnight.
We vowed not to sleep until we’d read the book. In the end, it was so late in the morning when we finished that we just powered on with the day.
Last year, my boyfriend took me to the Harry Potter studios for my birthday. He had never read the books or seen the films. He normally works really long hours but the week leading up to our visit, he was off sick, so we were able to rush through the films in the evenings. One night we watched three. It was one of the best weeks of my life!