In the summer twilight, I thought the flower farm might be hurrying to close. It turns out they never hurried.
The farmer, a woman decked out in every gardening accessory known to humanity, explained the system. Flower prices were marked on each plot. Vases were fifty cents, or plain old jars were free. “Pick whatever flowers you want, and add up the prices,” she said. “Leave the money in the jar, or our Venmo is written on the board.” She went back to weeding.
Generally, I buy flowers already cut and waiting. They’re all in bloom, all available, all ready. The flower farm was a mixture. They had blooms…buds…stalks with nothing on them…things that had already been cut by other people. One section was roped off, saved for a wedding. We walked the rows, picking things that caught our eye, and mixing them into random bouquets. No hurry at all, as the twilight deepened.
Having all the flowers ready at once is an illusion. Like strawberries at the food store in January. Or, apples in March. Not everything is on the same schedule. The flower farm reminded me that things get ready in stages.
Even when we make a change, not everything inside us is ready. When a group makes a decision, some members say yes, and still aren’t convinced. Some aspects of COVID remain even though it's "over." The much discussed quiet quitting is a mental shift -- saying that an essential part of us is separate from our jobs. The job doesn’t own every part of our lives.
You can’t hurry flowers, or apples, or people. When my daughter was younger, I had to school myself to slow down to her walking pace, reminding myself that fun was the goal. Now, she slows down for me.
My biggest learning is still settling down to someone else's pace, instead of trying to drag them into mine. I want everything to be faster, faster. The flower farm reminded me that slower is a pace, too. Not all thing are meant to be ready at the same time.
What are you slowing down for these days?
-- Mary Austin
