In the classic fable of the tortoise and the hare, we’re left with the moral of—spoiler alert—Slow and steady wins the race. The tortoise, who makes its way from start to end at its own natural pace, beats the hare who, relishing in its confidence in victory, stops and takes a nap.
…I think this tale was supposed to comfort me as someone who prefers a slower, less frenetic pace than modern life affords.
But when I thought more about it: the only reason the tortoise won was due to the hare’s overconfidence, which led it to take a break. So, what if the hares of the modern world never stop at all? Is there a chance at all for the tortoises?
I think about my “pace” a lot when I find myself feeling guilty or embarrassed by how little output I produce, how often I need to rest, how open I want my schedule to be (and how protective I am of keeping it that way), how much I dislike multi-tasking even though I do it endlessly. I find myself slapping on the labels of weak (why can’t I handle more on my plate?) and lazy (why can’t I muster the energy to do these things?) and abnormal (why does it seem like everyone else has no problem going this fast?). I find myself apologizing and overexplaining when I can’t keep up. I fear the world will move along at its clip, forget about me, and I’ll lose opportunities to show my work because I missed some kind of arbitrary slim window.
But—my god—do I love taking it slow.
I remember when I started distance running as an adult. Previously, my relationship with the activity was merely obligational. (I’m looking at you, timed miles in high school gym class.) But given the relatively low barrier to entry and year-round ideal running weather here, I figured it was a cheap way to stay active. The first few (read: many) runs were crummy. I lived in a neighborhood where hills were inevitable, my sneakers were probably an ill-fitted $20 Nordstrom Rack sale-on-sale find, and I had still adopted a timed mentality; I didn’t know there were any other ways to run. I would end them all feeling like I was dying: my heart was going to fall out of my chest, my feet were in pain, my breathing was more like gasping. I continued to kind of hate the activity.
There was a distinct day that I finally had the sense to set out with a not-so-novel hypothesis: what if I just ran slower as a way to run longer? I gave myself permission to walk up the hills, I slowed myself down when I noticed my breathing and heart rate were getting away from me, I didn’t try to make every single changing crossing signal. When I did this, I carried myself further than I ever had before. With every successive run after that day, I continued to creep up in mileage, finally reaching beautiful park paths, eventually making it all the way to the ocean on my own two feet.
My conclusion was simple: I’m just a really slow runner. And that’s okay. That’s just how I do it. That’s just how I enjoy that activity. And isn’t that the point of my doing this in the first place?
Fast forward to the current state of my art-making, and oddly enough I find myself at the same crossroads. Do I block myself from feeling joy and fulfillment for the sake of producing more in less time, or do I reign it in to feel the intentionality behind each piece I work on? Seems like there’s an obvious answer here, but there are consequences for either choice. I somehow keep wishing for a faster, more efficient, more talented, more equipped version of myself, as if that’s the thing keeping me from experiencing the best of both worlds.
Maker friends who’ve come before me have long told the cautionary tale of turning your passions into an income—how it changes your relationship completely. And I see the hustle in people. It’s admirable, really. In a world where you have to compete with mass production, algorithms that only care if you dance-monkey-dance (literally), and Amazon-level fulfillment, I get it. The little guys have to have their skin in the game too, somehow. I think we all just do what we need to do in the hopes that our souls are still intact by the end of it.
But the truth is: I’m a tortoise through and through. And if that means I get absolutely crushed by the Energizer Bunnies of the universe, that’s okay, right? That’s just how I do it. I’m stubbornly protective of this. I don’t want to have to apologize. This is the only way I will keep enjoying this activity, and isn’t that the whole point of allowing yourself to pursue a passion? Isn’t that the whole point of living?