It took nine years, one month, and twenty-four days. But I finally got them ~ the Spanish flamenco shoes I’ve always wanted.

Way back in the day when my first-born was a toddling one-year old and my son was merely a glimmer in our eyes, we hosted an English language student from Madrid. She was a lovely soul who had studied economics and had come to the States to brush up her English. It turns out our Spanish equalled her English ~ da nada. We gesticulated and smiled and admired each other in that friendly nice-to-meet you way most international travellers do. It was then that I started a love affair with Spanish shoes because the girl had a pair I secretly coveted from Day One. They were simple ~black with a delicate strap that said “I am woman. Watch me tap.” They clicked and clacked eloquently across the hardwood floors of our Somerville home, a dancer’s lunge from Boston.  Those shoes, in all their brightness, even made me forget how little the girl and I could actually communicate.

For years I searched high, then low, for a similar pair of those black beauties. Our lovely Spanish student went home after completing her language course, sending us a condolence card of thanks because she must have thought the flower on the front was pretty. Patiently, nay, reverently, I looked for a pair of clackers just like she had in every corner of the city. To no avail.

That is, until I recently found myself in Barcelona on a power of slow trip like no other. My sister and I snatched our passports (and our husbands) for a long weekend on the Mediterranean Coast. Passing by a few boutique stores in search of a new handbag, I spotted the long-awaited footwear that seemed to call out to me like a siren’s song.

Within minutes I was the proud new owner of a pair of Flamenco heels that literally announced my arrival along the cobblestone streets. I smartly clacked my way back to the hotel with a renewed sense of purpose.

It may have taken nearly a decade, but embracing the slow fulfillment of a dream such as this was worthwhile and makes every new step I take all the sweeter for it.

Despite my very best intentions today, I got overwhelmed. Ironically, it all began with the brrrriiing of my phone.

I thought I’d be smart about things. Start the day off right. Despite the snow, I took a trip to the grocery store shortly after 8 am. Taking it easy down the aisles, I reviewed my shopping list, compared prices, and carefully placed my purchases in the shopping cart. I even walked slowly to my car, ignoring the swirling flakes that were ruining my hairdo. For a moment, I even stopped to breath in the carbon dioxide-laced air of the parking lot, gratified about my decision to take it easy this morning.

As I came back to the house with all my groceries, I spied the UPS man parking behind me. “Oh, let it be my manuscript!” I almost cried, overjoyed that I had smartly cleared my calendar for the morning to take it as it comes. Seconds later, the doorbell rang. Sure enough! Package from Macmillan! I signed the cold monitor of the delivery man’s device, then took another deep breath.

How lovely! I’ll just put away these groceries and…riiiiiiiiing! The phone jostled me from my controlled reverie.

It was my friend, wondering where I was.

“Is it Thursday already?” I could feel my practiced calm being effortlessly replaced by the all-too-familiar panic of the overscheduled.

“Um…yes….” Cold silence on the other end. I quickly placed down the UPS package, tossed the rest of the food into the fridge and raced over to my friend’s house, whom I had promised to brunch with a full week before. How could I have known seven days ago that I would need this morning to breathe? I entered her house with a smile and a hug.

That was the moment when things surreptiously fell apart, as if by slow motion. The children seemed to come home early, even though they arrived at the same time as they always do on Thursdays. For the rest of the afternoon, I raced, pounced, and raged against myself, wondering what had happened to the sovereign, placid person who had stepped foot in the grocery store nine hours before.

Despite my very best intentions, I failed to keep the calm I had so desired. And my book manuscript is smiling at me, reminding me of the power of slow in all its glory, that I too am not immune to the stressors of life. Next time I’ll make a better choice to look at my calendar before I smugly think about how well I can manage things. Lo! To err is human. To forgive, well, you know…!

Carl talks about invoking your inner tortoise to slow down to a workable speed. Admittedly, my tortoise typically rears its head in the form of a head or chest cold. It seems to be the only way to slow me down to a plodding pace of sheer nothingness. Funny enough, I had bemoaned a sense of insufferable inaction before I even got sick this weekend. I made the mistake of placing it on my Facebook update on Friday afternoon. Within minutes, my literary agent was reminding me of the power of slow (it is, ironically, the name of my own forthcoming release)…

And so we are once again reminded that everything has a time and place. While we all struggle with the cult of speed (Lord knows my daughter reminds me that everyone has her own pace), it is important to remember we do not need to ride the wave at all times. It is also okay to stand at the ocean’s edge in comfortable silence and in the wisdom of time spent outside the rush and flurry of activity for its own sake. In fact, there is goodness and healing in allowing your inner tortoise to stroll along the sand for the sheer pleasure of doing so.

The morning routine with kids can be hectic, especially when it doesn’t get light in Germany until well after they have to be at school. The one-more-minute-of-sleep urge was so great for me this morning that they actually got up before I did.

That’s when the tension began.

“It’s 7:15,” I growled, sporting my mismatching pj’s as I entered the kitchen.” You have fifteen minutes before you need to leave the house. What do you need to do?” With bed head and morning breath, I started commanding my kids around before they could even answer.

Not very slow of me.

I was a little nervous because today was the first day that my seven-year-old son, Jackson, would be home alone for an hour between school and soccer practice. I worried if they got off their timeline by even a minute, the whole house of cards could come tumbling down. I watched my nine-year-old daughter don her clothes for a full five minutes. My husband nearly had to peel me from the ceiling.

But here’s the winning moment. As Jackson struggled with the clock to know when he should leave for practice, his sister lovingly wrote the numbers down on a card. She captured time, with bright lilac Crayola, and showed it to him.

It looks like I have a lot to learn about my relationship with time after all. Thankfully I have great teachers who embrace slow even when their mother does not.