I feel new to writing. I’ve written all my life, but something has changed. So often I’ve written on the run, sitting in a restaurant whispering song ideas into a voice recorder or outlining a chapter for two hours on an unusually free morning. I’ve rarely been able to be deliberate in time to write. I am still not disciplined, but it’s very interesting to sit down in the morning and devote time to writing. I know many writers of all kinds do this. And this fall I’ve been able to do that more.
Plus, writing is hard. It’s joyful in certain ways, but I’ve been in the Leonard Cohen/Yip Harburg/Peter Berryman mindset of trying to dig deeper. Not get out so quickly. And so lines and words and stick out. This song needs more of that. I’m grateful to Tom Pease for his suggestions. Joe Ruthless he calls himself. Not really fitting, but, hey…
Sometimes I have a project, song, or idea that I plan on exploring. But other times something unbidden shows up. Just by making the time and space.
Thus, this song. Yesterday on what may prove to be one of our last nice days before winter, I was sitting on the front porch and watching a grownup and a little girl walk down the street. Without being in a hurry. The little girl just sat down at one point, and nothing happened. They just looked around and waited.The grownup told a passerby “We’re just moving slow.”
This song sort of connects to the one in my previous blog, Gift of an Unexpected Hour. Time. It’s all we have, really.
Moving Slow
Leaves are flying one by one
In the October sun
A little girl, barely one
Unsteady on her feet.
She lies down on a sidewalk square.
Her dad does too, and they lie there
Leaves and wild geese in the air
High above the street.
Moving slow
They’re moving slow
Acting like there’s no else they need to go
Moving slow
Moving slow
The sweetest times in my life that I know
Are moving slow.
He used to jump and hunt and run
Now his running days are done
Most days find him in the sun
By the kitchen floor.
She leads him slow from tree to tree.
He can smell what he can’t see.
He lifts his leg. He’s gotta pee
Then heads back to the door
Some days are steep they seem uphill
But moving slow is better
Than standing still
Every day they’re walking by
Hand in hand, they’re not shy.
Looking strangers in the eye
Waving at the cars.
He’s 88, she’s 85.
It’s been a while since they could drive
They’ve got nowhere to arrive
So they’re just where they are.
© Stuart Stotts 2018