Over the last few months, my weeks begin on a Wednesday or a Thursday, depending on which of these days I choose to do my slow mornings. These are my days of blessings, reflections, and/or observation,s among other attributes, also based on how I choose to spend those mornings.
The common denominator of these mornings is that they begin with waking up super-early and dressing up (I’m aware… certainly, that start isn’t what the typical ‘slow’ means), commuting to a park and spending a good two hours there before heading to work. This is my definition of slow- not having the mad rush of getting two full meals prepared for the day ahead and following it up with a tiring commute that has become so integral to urban life, but rather being immersed in nature to remind myself that there’s more to life. Over the last couple of months, the Lalbagh botanical garden has got me covered, close to work, and mostly because it is large enough that my slow pace isn’t in conflict with fast-moving runners and joggers. I wish to find the equivalent of the large garden, in life too. Funnily, the commute to work is really the same as the park, extended by about fifteen minutes. Only, the ‘tiring’ difference between the two journeys is not the added time but peak-hour traffic and the few extra degrees in temperature, two hours later, when I typically start for work.
Although the most appealing idea of the early-but-slow morning is this: interacting with the trees, going back to meet them in different stages of their year- flowering, fruiting, shedding, and so much else that I am learning about them, from them. Does it then make sense to do a park visit every day? I suppose not, because the novelty of this once-a-week routine makes it sacred, doable, and holds my mental presence. Also, there is the privilege of doing the slow morning as a ‘want-to’ activity, and not a ‘have-to’ activity, in addition to being able to pause other daily routines and dependencies to afford this personal time.
Figure 1: That time I learned that the Mitragyna parvifolia is a pollinator magnet! Here’s a common crow butterfly.
Half of my time at the park is just about being present and taking in the trees- grand old specimen to feel humbled in front of; small ones, or even taller beings that have flowering branches bending down, to greet me at eye level; the cacophony of mynas and squirrels; the grains of a trunk revealing a two-tailed spider guarding her eggs; picking up familiar-looking flowers and seed pods off the ground only to look up at their sources and go: ‘Ohhh, so it was you producing these all along!?’
Figure 2: Wrightia tinctoria: That time I realised that the fluffy seeds came from this tree!
The other half? Journaling. And making notes of all my sensory observations- what birds am I hearing just then; the familiar trees I said ‘hi’ to; the new trees that I met; other things on my mind; and freezing up in the half-fear of the tiny orange buzz around me that mostly seems like a crane fly but could also be a wasp, when I am just sitting on the park bench doing my thing. In case that does happen to be a wasp, I’d like to think I live life on the edge. So, there’s that.
Figure 3: Left: the optical illusion looking a Two-tailed spider guarding her eggs; Right: a Jumping spider came and hung out with me as I was journaling
Figure 4: Some journal entries go like this
In this process and routine of knowing nature, there are a few things I’ve learned about myself. The orientationally-challenged person that I was, now has clear mental maps of the sections of this large park that I’ve covered. Of the trees that I have become familiar with, I know exactly where a particular one is. Or which tree marks that turning I took. The attention to detail in nature has helped me stay more focused and less anxious in life otherwise too.
Overall, this routine is filling a major void of many years. Raised in a household that values faith, which I have disowned, I realise, a lot of the time spent on constant engagement with places of worship and rituals as a child was replaced in adult life by overworking, doom-scrolling, or entertainment. Yet, a feeling of emptiness remained until recently. Now I have found my own slow and deliberate, spiritual activity to go back to.
This is the form of therapy I never knew I needed. If I could, this is what I’d tell my youngerself:
‘Ask ’em, kid. The trees know it all!’
About the Author: Sindhuja Sarasram is a Landscape architect and nature enthusiast with a keen interest in indigenous plants. She shares her explorations through writing and art on Instagram @albino.orange
