A Snail’s Pace

Dear friend,

It was an early start today. I set my alarm for 5:30 a.m., which used to be routine back when I was teaching in schools.

It’s mighty hot for London, so I watered the plants while the coffee brewed on the stove. Chiara had a flight to catch to Italy—she’s teaching and directing for the next few weeks—and we were both a little blurry-eyed and sad.

Time apart does make the heart grow fonder. It reminds me that nothing is permanent here, no matter how hard we try to keep that knowledge at bay. One of the elements I appreciate about maturing is the broader perspective: with the passing decades, you learn that things work out. You face the non-negotiables of life, and you come through—changed, but still present.

I rigged up some shade in the garden with a triangular sun sail and gathered the smallest pots out of the intense heat. Chiara and I chatted on the drive to the airport, and it felt like I’d be getting on the plane too—or like we were headed out on a road trip together.

It was hectic at the drop-off point. A group of armed police sweltering in a circle shouted at a guy getting out of his cab in the “wrong” place.

“Hey! You can’t stop there!” one of them barked in a high, thin voice.

The guy clearly could, and did. There was an awkward pause while no one in the police group seemed to know what to do next. He just walked into the airport while high-vis staff tried to keep the flow of cars moving.

Chiara and I have come a long way together. We still drive each other mad sometimes, but we’re more able these days to talk through our differences. Not always—but quicker now to get to the soft, tender underbelly of a squabble. We’ve learned, through painful experience, to give up the need to be right.

They say people would rather be right than happy. I choose happy.

I watched as she crossed the zebra crossing into the airport and drove home listening to a Sherlock Holmes story.

I spent most of the rets of the day in the garden shade and didn’t venture out until early evening, cycling to the shops. When I got home, I noticed a medium-sized garden snail had attached itself to the rim of my front wheel. I couldn’t believe it had clung on all the way there and back. How fast must it have been spinning?

I plucked it gently off the metal. Its little head and feelers came out straight away, having a look around. I wondered if snails get dizzy. It seemed fine. I dropped it into the cool oregano bed. They tend to leave the oregano alone.

Later, Chiara called. When I told her about the snail, she said it must be the Tom Cruise of the snail world—and that she could hear the Mission Impossible theme in her head.

That’s it, really.

Details.

Little things.

I’m grateful for details. The big things will come along when they’re good and ready.

And when they do, we’ll greet them like old friends, and make peace.

Till tomorrow
Love,
Mikey