I walk with my Dad, around the track, lap one, lap two, lap three…but we don’t keep track. We get lapped by the runners and we lap the slow-walkers. One of the slow-walkers says, Good morning! like it’s the first time we’ve passed him, every time. And then sometimes he breaks into a run, his bent back and knobby knees pushing forward in short bursts, like he just can’t help himself. Like he’s racing and trying to win in the last seconds.

I want to be like him. I want to be content going my own pace, surrendering to what passes me by and what I leave behind. I want to burst forth, breaking into a run every once and a while, when I have the energy, only when I can.

It has taken me until age 35 to even begin to understand when to walk–when to wait and see and feel, and when to run–to find the energy to fight my aching back and wobbly knees and try a little harder.

For most of my life I’ve been doing a lot of spinning-wheels kind of running, faster faster faster, to avoid the hurt from the past or to try to run quickly through whatever hurt may take over the next lap. Just push through, don’t think, don’t feel, just go.

Which has been pretty futile since I feel things so deeply no matter how hard I try not to feel things.

So lately I’ve been strolling, just being, just existing. Not pushing for things to go my way, not manipulating life, not trying to make it what I think it should be. I’m not very good at this, but I’m trying. I’m slowing down enough to watch and wait and see. I’m saying, Good morning!

Life since the day I quit drinking has spurred on and it’s been good and fast and much. Things have come my way that I did not expect and I’m grateful for those things. But now, this slowing down feels good and right. These days of growing a baby and being still and sifting through my heart are good. Something is happening in me that means I have to strip away everything that feels like running. It’s not time to run.

It’s time for quiet and for surrender. It’s time to watch and wait and see, to hope and know and believe.

Around the track where I walk with my Dad there are big inspirational signs hanging on the concrete walls. They say things about caring and responsibility and perseverance. My Dad and I go slow enough that I can read them, to think about them, to let them sink in. That’s what this feels like…a season to allow the dreams of my heart to reveal themselves like signs on a wall, ones I can take in, around and around and over and over, taking my time. This is different from my past, the way I would rush clumsily around the track, throwing up my own signs and willing life to follow my design. This is different than wondering what my “purpose” is and why it hasn’t shown up…this is realizing that I live my purpose even when I don’t know that I am, and it’s all good.