Slow Living: Let the Small Outing Be Enough

I asked a friend the other day what her plans were for the weekend. We’re in that glorious final push of good weather here in Portland. The trees are blazing, the sky is clear, and it’s cool enough to wear a sweater without needing to layer a parka over it.

In other words—PERFECT.

She listed about seven activities, including a street fair, birthday-gift shopping, and a trip to the pumpkin patch.

That was Saturday. Just Saturday.

You can enjoy a little autumn without fitting the whole season into one Saturday.

I laughed, exhausted by the amount of peopling this woman was going to have to do.

She sighed, leaned back against her couch, and said, “I don’t know why I do this to myself.”

I think autumn can create its own particular urgency. Visit the pumpkin patch. See the leaves. Stop at the farm stands. Enjoy every beautiful afternoon before the cold rain arrives and we all retreat indoors.

There’s so much to enjoy. Somewhere along the way, enjoying it can become a full damn itinerary.

For me, a card-carrying member of the Introverts Society, my friend’s Saturday sounded exhausting. But I also recognize how easily I go in the other direction.

I love staying home. I work from home. My mortgage and I spend a great deal of quality time together.

I go to the gym four days a week, where I say hello to the front desk attendant and occasionally thank someone for wiping down their machine. Bless you, my fellow gym-goer. May both sides of your pillow stay cold.

At the grocery store, I generally choose self-checkout, keeping myself on-brand.

But lately, I’ve wanted a little more contact with the world beyond my front door. I’m a writer who writes about human relationships; it helps to occasionally witness humans having them.

A little neighborhood wandering, a few porch decorations to admire, and nowhere you need to hurry.

So I’ve made a little deal with myself: get out of the house and spend some time among other people. I don’t need to come home with a new friend or an expanded social circle. I don’t need to make the day impressive enough to justify leaving the house.

A small outing can be enough.

On Saturday, I woke before the sun, settled into my reading corner with coffee, and started a murder mystery logic puzzle. The first one just about kicked my ass. Allegedly, it was “easy.” I considered staying there. Puttering, writing, enjoying what my mortgage pays for.

Instead, I put on real pants—the kind with a non-elastic waistband—and headed to the farmers market. Finding parking took twenty minutes, so a walk became part of the outing. Along the way, I stopped at a thrift store I’d never visited and had three short, lovely conversations with the owner and two customers.

By the time I reached the market, I wondered whether my social light might already be blinking.

Then an eight-month-old baby, riding in a carrier with his tia, gave me a toothy grin while I was looking at Roma tomatoes and freshly dug beets.

Well. Apparently, I had a little more in the tank.

I chatted with them, bought vegetables, and had a brief conversation with the young man weighing my Honeycrisp apples. Small exchanges. A few smiles. People enjoying a beautiful Saturday.

When I got home, my neighbors were outside decorating their porch with hanging witches’ hats and candles. Naturally, I needed to admire their work. We talked about the autumn colors in the park, our shared hatred of gas-powered leaf blowers before nine in the morning, and the appreciation for the neighbor down the street whose spooky alien spaceship he built in his yard for Halloween glows green every evening.

By the time I walked through my front door, I was smiling. I had energy left. I didn’t need to unplug or recover.

I counted nine people I’d spoken with, including the cutie in the baby carrier. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d talked to that many people during a single outing.

What stayed with me was how little I’d asked the day to accomplish. I’d gone outside to enjoy it, followed my curiosity, and come home when I was ready.

That felt like a small harvest of its own: a bag of apples, a few conversations, and the pleasure of feeling part of the neighborhood.

Enough to be glad I went. Enough to come home satisfied.

Follow your curiosity down a bookshelf. There’s no assignment waiting at the end.

Slow living leaves room for getting out into the world at a pace that feels good to you. One place to explore, a few passing conversations, and the freedom to head home while you’re still enjoying yourself. If you’d like a little more of that, here are a few gentle places to begin.

• Visit the library and browse whatever catches your eye. You don’t need to study something useful. Look at books about elaborate gardens or very peculiar birds.

• Take a short walk with no fitness goal. Notice the leaves, admire the porch decorations, stop when you feel like stopping.

• Have coffee somewhere you can linger. Bring a book, watch the world, exchange a hello if the opportunity arises.

• Wander through a small shop. Appreciate the beautiful, strange, or nostalgic things. Buying something is optional.

• Visit a farmers market without a shopping list. Smell the apples, admire the flowers, ask someone what they’ve grown.

• Sit on a park bench for a little while. You’re allowed to enjoy a place without making a whole afternoon of it.

• Invite one person for something simple. Tea on the porch. A stroll around the block. No elaborate hosting required.

  
  

Choose one. Let it be the whole outing.

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