A Season for Slowing Down: Finding Joy in the Journey

                                                   Photo by johannes-plenio onunsplash

October has a way of gently nudging us to pause. The light softens, the air cools, and the trees start shedding what they no longer need. Nature doesn’t rush this season, yet everything is in constant change.

We’ve all heard that life is a journey. It might sound like a cliché until you really sit with it. Take a moment now, before you read on, and simply notice where you are in your own life.

This month, I’d like to explore what happens when we stop chasing the next destination. What might we discover in the stillness between our steps?

The Journey, Not the Arrival

No matter how much we achieve or acquire, there’s always something more. I see this in the children I teach, counting down the days to the next grade. I remember it in myself, wishing away my high school years and wanting every goal reached the moment I began it. Not in good time. Now.

In The Matrix, Neo learns kung fu in seconds when a computer downloads it into his brain. I used to think that would be wonderful. Looking back, I see it differently.

My degree and certifications didn’t make me who I am. The work did. Going to class every day, struggling, practicing, failing, succeeding, and being present through every movement and every moment. That is where the richness lives.

The goal gives us direction. The journey gives us joy.

Listening for the Inner Voice

Consciously or not, we are always heading toward something. We want to feel more content, connected, and whole. We want to feel less lonely and afraid. So we lay down tracks: a career, friendships, a family.

Yet even with the tracks in place, new fears and new wants keep popping up. The search can feel endless when we keep looking outward.

Stillness turns us inward. In quiet moments, we can hear our inner voice speaking to the heart. Sometimes it says try something different. Sometimes it says stay the course. There is no wrong turn here, because each choice teaches us and each correction moves us forward.

That voice is what keeps us on track with what we’re here for. It blossoms from how we connect with ourselves, how we connect with others, and our quest for meaning. When you feel stuck, take a moment to quiet down and ask yourself: What’s really important to me right now? The answer will help you let go of what doesn’t matter and ease the stress that comes with it.

You might not have a clear path ahead. What you need is to feel which step feels right, take it, and see what comes next.

Ragged and Loved: What Care Looks Like.

On the shelf nearby sits my Raggedy Andy figurine. My older sister gave him to me when I was little, and he's been with me ever since, through my childhood bedroom, college, three apartments, three houses. Somewhere along the way, one foot broke.

Earlier this year, when my mom was visiting me, she helped me patch it, and we left the repair visible with a swollen cast and a little Band-Aid. I joke about it now. He’s ragged, obvious, and oddly perfect to me.

Then, over the summer, someone bumped into him and he fell again. He’s so lightweight that it doesn’t take much to knock him over. The back of his head cracked. I screamed, then immediately thought, “My mother is going to kill me for knocking him over.”

I was busy and didn’t have the time or patience to glue him right away, so I put the pieces back together and left him like that. Days turned into weeks. Last weekend, I finally sat down and glued him back together. I held the pieces in my hands and pressed them into place, careful not to rush. When I stepped back, he looked whole again, but not untouched. The crack was still part of his story, and it made me smile to see him finally settled, repaired, and still unmistakably himself.

These small moments have shown me a new perspective. Worn edges, visible fixes, and touched places make something enduring, not diminished. Imperfection isn't something to hide; it's what makes a thing, or a person, worth keeping.

The Japanese have a word for this: wabi-sabi, the practice of finding beauty in what's imperfect, impermanent, and incomplete. I didn't know the term then, but I was learning to live it, in the way I kept the broken things, in the way I let them stay visible, in the way I learned not to treat damage like the end of something.

He'll probably fall again someday, a doorway, a shelf, a careless elbow. When he does, I won't rush to fix him. I'll let the pieces sit for as long as they need to, and glue him back together when I'm ready, not before. That's the tending part: not getting it right once, but being willing to do it again.

Gathering

Photo by Pauline

Once, I sat by my window, sharing my worries and watching a sunflower turn its face to the sun. Its gentle movement calmed me. I felt weighed down by chores and plans, wanting time alone. The sunflower slowly turned toward the light, reminding me not to rush.

I realized I could get things done, relax in the garden, and still enjoy dinner with friends. The day felt more manageable, not because anything changed, but because I did.The sunflowers I planted burst forth in buttery yellows, deep golds, and rusty reds. Birds and squirrels feasted on the seeds, and I welcomed them. The garden felt generous and alive, a reminder that abundance is meant to be shared.

My students planted flowers, vegetables, and milkweed, eagerly watching for new buds, bees, and chrysalises. AJ noticed everything. He studied new buds, measured stem growth, and searched for caterpillars and chrysalises. When bees and birds visited the small blue flowers, he ran to tell us.

I wonder what AJ was really watching for. Was he simply noticing the garden’s changes, or was he waiting for the next sign of life, growth, and becoming? 

Maybe that’s what I’m watching for too. I imagine my heart as a sunflower, holding a steady sun. I let that light touch others with a smile, a door held open, or an invitation to the garden.

I can’t always solve struggles, but I can meet them with presence and care, like a sunflower turning toward the sun. Sometimes, that’s enough.

Years later, I return to the garden when I need to remember this. One foggy morning, I watched the sun rise as birds stirred and the earth warmed. I breathed in the quiet and felt softened.

I realized I still learn to release the need to fix everything at once. I still hurry, fill my days with tasks, and forget to pause. But now I know the way back. I can step outside, focus on something living, and let its presence bring me into the moment.

The return is rarely dramatic. It might be watering a plant, holding a door, sharing a bench, or noticing a new bud. These small acts remind me that care is a rhythm, not a single decision. I turn toward what gives me life, repeat it, and become more rooted, open, and willing to share my light.

Turn toward what gives you life, again and again. Let your sunflower heart guide you.