using the arrow buttons.
by clicking on the page.
the page around when zoomed in by dragging it.
the zoom using the slider when zoomed-in.
by clicking on the zoomed-in page.
by entering text in the search field, and select "This Issue" or "All Issues"
by clicking on thumbnails to select pages, and then press the print button.
displays sections with thumbnails and descriptions.
displays a slider of thumbnails. Click on a page to jump.
allows you to browse the full archive.
about your subscription?
Lions Roar : January 2005
SHAMBHALA SUN JANUARY 2005 69 They keep telling me what everyone has been saying since the day each of the girls was born—about how fast time flies—and I agree, and thank them for their counsel. They keep looking at the girls’ little baskets of berries and smiling, and saying that same thing again and again throughout the course of the lazy-dusk conversation—and yet I don’t know what to do about that truth, that inescapable flight, other than to go out into the patches of light scattered here and there along the edges of the old forest and pick strawberries with them in the evening, just as we’re doing. And while I’m very grateful for the advice, I also wonder often if it, the time of childhood, doesn’t sometimes pass faster for the parent by considering and noticing the speed of its passage, as opposed perhaps to a sleepier, less attentive, less fretful awareness of that passage and its nearly relentless pace. Either way, it’s going to go fast. I know I’m doing what I can to slow it down. Reading to them in the evenings; cooking with them; taking them on hikes, to swim in the mountain lakes. Any activity I do with them could be done faster and more efficiently, but only recently have I come to understand that the slower and more inefficiently we do these things, the greater is my gain, our gain; the less quickly that galloping stretch of time passes. Taking three hours to fix a single, sim- ple meal is a victory. Coming back from two hours in the woods with only a dozen strawberries left over is a triumph. Chaos and disorderliness can be allies in my goals of spending as much time as possible with them. If I’ll only watch and lis- ten, they’ll show me—for a while—how to slow time down: instructing me in a way that I could never otherwise learn from the caring counsel of my friends. Still, it’s good to hear it, even if bittersweet. I know not to argue with them, or deny it. I know, or think I know, the sound of the truth, and it’s wonderful to have their support in the matter. We say our leisurely good-byes and part company in the hanging dusk, which is turning quickly now to darkness, so that we need to turn our lights on, traveling down the road on our way through the old forest. On the way home the girls would eat every single one of the last of the berries, if I let them—would run right through the last of our supplies in only a minute or two—and so I put the little straw baskets in the cab of the truck, just out of reach. A COUPLE OF DAYS LATER, after an afternoon spent atthe waterfall, we’re walking along a gravel road, again at dusk, and again the girls are finding the tiny wild strawberries. It’s the 27th of July: hot days, cold nights. It’s a couple of miles back to the truck, and the girls alternate between running and walking slowly; and again I try to relax and release, and give myself over to what seems to me to be the irregular, even inscrutable logic of their pace, their seemingly erratic stops and starts. Stretching their freedom, then coming back. They run pell-mell for a while down the road, then slow to a saunter. Lowry stops at one point and looks up at the sky for long moments. “What are you doing?” I ask. “Listening to the leaves,” she says. And she’s right: just above the louder sound of the rushing creek, the drying leaves of the riverside cottonwoods are rattling slightly, and sound- ing different, dryer—autumnal already. She’s four! It pleases me deeply, so much so that I don’t even say anything, other than offering some mild concurrence. Farther down the road she stops again and announces, “It smells good here.” She’s talking about the scent of the creek- side bog orchids, which are intensely fragrant—almost over- poweringly so, like cheap perfume—and both girls walk out into the orchids to smell them better. Lowry tells us that they “smell better than the shampoo with the silver cap.” They run for a short distance, with me trailing right behind them, for safety—giving them their freedom, yet guarding them in lion country—and they stop yet again. And when I ask what they’re doing this time, Low says quietly, as if from dreamland, “Listening to water.” They’re both just standing there, staring at a glade below in the dimming light, mesmerized, it seems, by the very fabric of