We visited relatives this week. I brought some sewing for the car ride and since it was not a  lot of handwork to fill the time I made small, careful stitches. There was no hurry. 

There were long stretches of parenting when every minute counted. When babies fell asleep in a sling I knew this was my chance to stir sauce at the stove, fold clothes on the dryer, call a friend. Anything that could be accomplished vertically. Multi tasking was the epitome of mothering. Or so it felt. 

I read a story about a fishing village where the men worked in the morning, only gathering enough for their families and a bit to sell.  Then they spent the afternoons talking, singing, enjoying their children. A successful business man from the city watched this and offered free advice. 

"You should work harder, getting enough fish to sell in town, and eventually buy a bigger boat. Then you can catch even more fish and buy a second boat. You could make a lot of money."

"Why would we need to do that?"

"So that eventually you can retire, and slow down. Then you can just fish when you want to and spend the rest of your days with your wives."

"But we already do that."

It is puzzling that the tempo of life goes in fits and starts. But more puzzling still is my judgments about it. Too fast... too slow. I am curious what happens when I just observe the speeds, like the crescendo and decrescendo of a symphony. Maybe the Conductor holding the baton knows something I don't.