Life at the Soul’s Pace

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Glancing at the upper left corner of my iPad, I noticed the clock. 8:38. Damn. I’d lost track of time reading and now I had just 20 minutes to get some breakfast and make it to a 9:00 Zoom call.

I raced around the kitchen, scrambled some eggs and popped an almond flour tortilla in the toaster oven. Frank chatted with me about something, but I barely heard him. My mind was on the upcoming call. Halfway through my eggs, I realized I hadn’t even tasted them.

That’s when it hit me. In the five days since we returned from our trip, this was the first time I found myself rushing. The contrast felt jarring. Our relaxed, European pace had evaporated, replaced by urgency and tension. 

Was anything more important than staying present?

I put my fork down, took a breath, and came back into the present moment. Feelings of stress gave way to grief. I didn’t want to lose the precious state of being I’d found on vacation. Was anything more important than staying present?

This wasn’t a new question, but it landed with deeper meaning in light of the weeks preceding it. To understand why, I want to share my experience in Provence and Venice.

In the spring of 1973, I traveled to Europe with my high school a cappella choir. We spent the bulk of our time in Austria and Italy, visiting landmarks, wandering through medieval villages, and stopping at charming cafes. Captivating days culminated in sacred evenings, performing choral music with my friends in majestic cathedrals.

I don’t remember our exact arrival in Venice, but I vividly remember entering my shared hotel room, rushing to the window and throwing open the shutters to see a gondolier steering a young couple through the ancient waterway while an accordion player sang Santa Lucia. The moment was so cliché that I laughed and cried simultaneously, an indelible memory I’ve carried for decades.

Late last month, I returned to Venice for the first time in fifty-three years. It came at the midpoint of a five-week trip, so we’d already had time to shift gears. Our two prior weeks in the south of France (with no agenda other than pleasure and play) had allowed us to drop into our own rhythm. Morning markets to pick up fresh produce and cheeses. Stopping for coffee and buttery croissants. Sunny afternoons swimming in our backyard pool, then lounging with a good book. Balmy evenings dining al fresco. It’s what I love most about time in Provence, the opportunity to slow down and savor the sensual pleasures of life.

By the end of September, I was deeply relaxed and excited to rediscover Venice. That’s not to say I didn’t have concerns. Half a century of heavy tourism would surely have added strain to the structural and environmental issues the city faces. What would I find in the city my teenage self remembered so fondly?

There is still so much beauty and magic, some of which I believe is a product of the city’s slower pace.

What I discovered amazed me. It’s true that Venice is overcrowded, and the more iconic locations like Rialto Bridge and Piazza San Marco are choked with tourists. Some of the authentic shops have been replaced by cheap souvenir stalls. But there is still so much beauty and magic, some of which I believe is a product of the city’s slower pace.

In France, Frank and I slowed down by conscious choice. We avoided cities, and even though we got in the car most days, we never felt hurried. But in Venice, a slower tempo is baked into everyday living. La Serenissima, (a longtime nickname for Venice which literally means “the most serene”) is made up of one hundred and eighteen islands linked by over four hundred pedestrian bridges. With neither cars nor bicycles allowed, everyone must walk. There are no vehicles rushing past, no traffic lights to navigate. As you meander the ancient maze, you find yourself drawn into the city’s rhythm, coming upon quiet courtyards and cozy cafes that beckon you to stop.

One local man told us that most Venetians in the same neighborhood know one another. When they meet on the street, they pause for a coffee and a chat. Life unfolds with a gracious flow, unlike his friend who lives in Milan and doesn’t even know the people who live in the apartment above him.

At seventy-one, I know that my soul prefers a slower cadence, and I do, too.

I’m still integrating the impact this had on me. Perhaps at an earlier time, I was more adaptable to a fast-paced life. But at seventy-one, I know that my soul prefers a slower cadence, and I do, too. The biggest gift of my European adventure was the visceral experience of unhurried days that invited me to simply be present. Somewhere between our Provençal afternoons dozing to the sound of cicadas and our moonlit nights walking an ancient Venetian piazza, I came into quiet alignment with my soul. My imagination blossomed and my priorities began to shift. The rest of the trip unfolded with the enchanted synchronicity of operating in a flow state. It was pure magic.

Now that I’m home (and have experienced how easily I can forget), I want to deepen my commitment to presence. It’s true that driving to the supermarket to pick up packaged bread and cheese is not the same as wandering through the stalls of an open market, stopping to chat with the fromager and closing my eyes to savor three types of aged comté… then strolling to the boulangerie for a freshly baked baguette, breathing in the yeasty fragrance as my eyes dance over an artful display of pastries. 

Presence is powerful. It allows our senses to feast, and opens a doorway to worlds beyond.

It may not be as automatic here at home, but I can still slow down, open my senses and be in the moment. Presence is powerful. It allows our senses to feast, and opens a doorway to worlds beyond. The soul stirs. New ideas wander in. Creativity sparks.

As the world’s pace increases, I think we all have an even greater need to consciously slow down.

You don’t have to go to Europe to tap into this magic. Think of a moment in your life when time slowed and you felt suspended in a kind of magical presence. Perhaps you were stroking a cat or playing with your kids or entranced in wonder watching the moon rise. Stop and recall that feeling of timelessness. Feel your breath slowing, your shoulders dropping. Sense yourself being held in a divine flow.

Next, choose one small practice. Perhaps it begins by giving something your full attention today, without distraction. Or maybe you carve out half an hour to wander in nature, or take your sketchbook to a park bench, slowing time as the world rushes past. Simply pausing to smile and chat with the barista might not seem important, but it is a small way to offer the gift of connection. Each small step has impact.

I still cherish my adolescent memory, but now Venice has become something more to me: a talisman of pace and presence. I don’t want to miss the preciousness of my life. I want to taste the eggs, hear what Frank is saying, and show up fully for the everyday moments. 

Lucid Moment: When we slow to the soul’s pace, we make space for imagination, enchantment and the possibility of magic.

The crossing is underway. Let’s make it together.