The Pace of Life
So many people are propelling themselves through each day at maximum speed, like Tom Cruise’s cheeks hanging on to the side of an ascending airplane. I am more like the Molasses Swamp in the original Candy Land board game. It’s an interesting perspective on the world because, as I stand still, it twirls past me, then straps itself to a rocket and takes off. I shrug and go back to my matcha.
Watching your mom die slowly over several years, and then over several days, will turn the motorized walkway of life into freeze tag. When you sit in a room with relatives, waiting for your mom to stop breathing, because you know she is going to stop breathing, the pace of life loses all its meaning. Fast, slow, sideways, it doesn’t really matter. I was twenty when it ended, but that was only the end.
Even though I tried to bolt my feet to the ground to stop time and keep my kids young, they aged right in front of me. I couldn’t stop it. Of all the things parents want to do to set their kids free, we all harbor slight resentment that they grow up. I wonder how fast they think it’s going, or if I look like a much older version of my old self. At least they can see me.
Life can’t go fast when your dad needs a liver transplant and has a distended stomach while sitting in a hospital bed in Jackson Memorial Hospital in Miami, sun shining outside, and the legend stuck inside going to the bathroom in a gown. At the same time, I was parenting my kids in an unhappy home life, even in a beautiful home. It felt like the days weren’t even moving.
I think I’ve finally used my circadian rhythm to pace life to me. I go to bed at the same time every night. I wake up at the same time every morning without an alarm. I meditate. I read. I exercise with disdain. I walk. I work. I watch. I ponder. I listen. I allow the world to spin on its top while I sit in my work chair looking at NFL statistics in a slow drawl.
When I got into a car accident in my twenties, time stood still. I can still see parts of it. I wonder if it was the same for my grandmother when she got into her last car accident. It didn’t kill her, but it didn’t help the rest of her life with lung cancer. The universe turns every day, but I can still walk through the pink house in my mind.
I once ran a mile in 5:56. It was the only time I broke six minutes. It was also the only time I wasn’t worried about my pace. I just ran my ass off until it was over. When you are in middle school and running timed miles, you are running fast, but nothing is moving. There is a stillness to the race. My legs pushed me through the air until it was over. I drank from a warm water fountain.
© Jonathan Greene, September 29, 2026
