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Dear Reader,
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In March 1986, the opening of a McDonald’s near Rome’s Spanish Steps sparked a protest. The protest grew and over time developed to what we know today as the Slow Food Movement, a grassroots network of activists in more than 160 countries. Although it did not curb the rise of fast food establishments, it built awareness around culturally significant foods and their preparation. Today, the program extends to support for growing those foods on slow farms that commit to using sustainable methods. This is a beautiful story of how one right action sparked a movement and also that it raises the question of what it means to grow slow.

You may associate the Slow Food movement with charming off-the-beaten-path Mediterranean villages, but it could just as easily exist in your neighborhood or your front lawn. It doesn't take an organization for you to recognize the importance slowing down to consider what you put in your mouth for nourishment, how it is grown, and how it is prepared. We don’t have to go back that far to connect with ancestors who knew precisely where and how their food was grown and participated daily in its preparation using their hands.

Last Wednesday evening, as the sun cast its golden light across the garden beds our resident goldfinch pair sang their final song. The temperature had dropped, and it was fresh enough to reach for a linen shirt to cover my arms. The pungent scent that hung in the air carried memories of holidays abroad, bustling marketplaces, and afternoon meals on sun-drenched terraces. I had just carried in a tray heaped with freshly harvested softneck Italian rose garlic. I hadn’t planned this late in the day project, but when my nightly garden check revealed fully mature buibs it was clear it was time. Knowing I wouldn’t rest well until they were pulled, I got to work.

I arranged two additional trays on the wooden table facing the leafy edge of the forest. From the kitchen, I brought out the sharpest knife. Cutting each stalk to a length of six inches, so there would be enough to hang upside down to cure, I deftly removed the first layer of wrapping. Beneath lay a pristine white bulb. My hands soon fell into a pace of their own. Performing this simple repetitive task connected me with women across centuries and cultures who, with their own hands, cared for the season’s garlic harvest, ensuring a supply for months ahead.

I didn’t have a grandmother or aunt who passed along this skill that required no fancy tool or technology; rather, it rose up from within with ease. So deeply satisfying, I barely noticed the darkening sky and continued on as if I had been doing this my entire life. I am certain this and other skills I have gained in this new life lie within my DNA, confirming that this is how we were designed to work, with our hands, at a human pace.

Allow me to gush for just a moment about alliums. I have fallen in love with every variety I have met, but what I appreciate the most is that they are slow. There is nothing fast about growing garlic that is slipped into beds in November and makes its way to maturity in July. And onions and leeks won’t set any records for speed. There is something, however, very poignant about learning to appreciate the wait. They call that patience, and I didn’t come into the world with a full supply, but I know this garden and the Gemmo Forest are helping me flip my deficit.

If you've been following along with my conversations with Lois and Christine you will know a change in energy arrives Monday. Hexagram 53, Development asks us to consider these crucial questions:

What is evolving, and how can I be more patient?

The answers you discover will depend on where you look. (Tip: Don’t look to the media.) Look at your life, your relationships, and your local community. What is fresh, innovative, and just developing? What will take some time to watch over, but may lead to a breakthrough, or perhaps, a global movement? I invite you to join me this week and be on the lookout for what appears just outside the periphery, what is being teased out, or slowly, slowly emerging.

Until next week,

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