walking slow with old men and little kids

Murray came into my life over twenty years ago as my accountant and then he got officially old and then he died and I still miss my friend. Now, oddly, I think of him when I walk with my grandkids because I hold their hands and walk slowly with them, too. When I'm with three-year olds, for instance, I don't cross the street and think, "oh, I can make it!" because even though I can make it, they operate a little more slowly.

Being Murray's sidekick as we walked down the street generated the most astounding sense of impatience in me and then a wry sense of acceptance and calm.  After all, he couldn't go any faster, so why not accept my fate as his companion and enjoy the show?

The same thing happens when I'm in Nana role. The little kids are a quite a bit more bouncy than Murray was, but they are still pretty pokey. And even when other pedestrians are smiling at how cute the kids are, I notice they aren't wasting any time scooting around us.

My pedestrian perspective is normally quick, striding and purposeful. When I walked with Murray, I saw the aggregate pattern of smashed gum on the cement and I anticipated every road hazard for him. When I walk with little kids, I steer around obstacles and am alert to all the potential dangers ahead. I feel time slow down a little.

Someone told me lately that his favorite thing about his manager was his manager's patience. "I can ask him about some issue multiple times and he'll just calmly explain it to me until I really understand it." When he told me that, I thought of walking with Murray. I thought of walking with my grandkids. There is some deep value in the slowing down for me, not just for them. Sure, they might not be able to keep up, so I have to slow down. Sure, the guy in that office needs an explanation, and may even require a patient re-telling. But what a beautiful gift there is in the slowing down on the walk; what a lovely moment there is in the kindness of the teaching.