Every time I drove around a slight bend or down a hill, I waited for it to come into view. And finally it did — the Mackinac Bridge.
It has such a signature look, and I smiled wide when I first saw it. Then I continued to approach until I arrived at the toll booth and joined the other cars around me in crossing the Strait of Mackinac. (Did you know that Lake Michigan and Lake Huron are technically one gigantic lake? The strait is where they meet.)
There’s gorgeous blue water in every direction. It’s immense. The towers of the bridge loom large above it all. As I drove across, I rolled down my windows and turned my music up.
I also slowed down. And I felt completely comfortable doing this because everyone slows down. Everyone creates a leisurely experience for themselves, which, of course, creates it for everyone else. Everyone supports one another in making this choice. There is simply too much beauty to rush past.
As I continued driving, I found myself thinking about that. It feels like the opposite of how so much of the world works. We don’t often slow down collectively. Sure, there’s that strange week between Christmas and New Year’s when nobody quite knows what day it is. And if we’re fortunate — I am grateful to experience this — we have people in our workplaces, communities, and families who encourage us to rest and move at a more sustainable pace.
But there are also demands, aren’t there? Sometimes they come from hierarchies and systems. Sometimes they come from our own sense of responsibility. We care deeply about what we’re doing. We don’t want to let anyone down. And so we don’t always allow ourselves to slow down.
But maybe we could. And by that, I mean we.
Maybe slowing down needs to be collective. Or at the very least, it needs to function like a contagion Because when one person slows down — still moving forward, but at a reasonable pace, while also taking in joy and beauty — it creates the conditions for others to do the same.
—Renee Roederer
Smuggling Grace 