Beloved of the Sky

Self-Doubt, Slowness + The Blessings of Missed Opportunities

Welcome to Slow Folk - a community for heart-centred entrepreneurs and rebellious creatives, thirsty for a slower life in a world obsessed with speed.

These are my notes and reflections from over a decade of life in the Slow Lane. If you’re ready to push back against busy to build a life of purpose and presence-over-perfection - please join me.

Welcome to the Unbusy Revolution.

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I spent the past few days soaking in the raw beauty of the mountains that usually grace my distant horizon.

I didn’t have time to get away - which is exactly why I went.

It has been a hectic few months in our neck of the woods.

Life suddenly became unexpectedly, irrefutably busy.

Although I’ve lived - strived for, worked towards, rooted myself in - a slow and simple life for nearly 15 years now, one of the earliest lessons I learned was in order to do so, we must also embrace the truth that control is illusion.

Sometimes the stars align, the moon is full, Mars is in retrograde . . . and, despite your best efforts, everything goes to shit.

Or conversely, as has been my case of late - the things that fill your plate are joyful, what-you-asked-and-prayed-for, life-affirming and also simply too much.

When that happens (maybe this happens for you, too) - My tendency is to slip into a dark sea of self-doubt.

And yet. And yet . . .

Even (especially) when I don’t trust myself - I trust the Universe.

I draw my mantra from Desiderata - ‘And whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.’

Call it God, call it Universal Intelligence, call it Intuition, call it what you will.

If I am brave, even in my doubt, if I can find the courage to slow down, take a breath and be open . . .

It always provides exactly what I need.

What I want is what I’ve not got, but what I need is all around me. - Dave Matthews

We slowly made our way up the logging roads, into the vistas of slash and persistently resilient, stubbornly healing wildfire scars.

As we climbed I was struck - like the bolt of lightning that once burned these hills - by the sight of a lone, spindly tree reaching for the clouds.

I can’t explain it.

Like a painting - if it could be put into words it would be a poem, not a painting.

And yet, there it was.