 Thanks to YouTube, I've discovered the joys of Slow TV. Over the past couple of weeks, I've been experiencing a driver's eye view of the 9-hour train journey from Trondheim to Bodo in northern Norway. Originally filmed for Norwegian television, it's an epic without a word spoken - where the only drama is when the sun breaks through the clouds. (Having said that, the train does skip a few red lights, so I suppose there's always the possibility of a head-on collision - though five hours into the journey it hasn't happened yet.) I simply sit. And watch. And enjoy the stunning winter-wonderland scenery without worrying about the destination, or how long it's going to take to get there. Programmes like this - or the two-hour reindeer sleigh ride I watched over Christmas - are an invitation to slow down, take a deep breath, and forget for a while the stresses of fast-paced modern living. At work, there are usually 101 things to do, and I find myself having to cut corners, to accept 'good enough' when my instinct is to be thorough. From what I gather, it's a similar story in most workplaces. Even in the so-called caring professions, doctors or counsellors are asked to see more clients in less time. As they battle to meet targets, how present can they be? How much time is allowed for them to stop to listen to their clients' needs - spoken or perhaps unsaid? How much loving attention can they give? Outside of work too, there's a danger in us taking on too much - in filling our leisure hours with so many activities and responsibilities that we're always dashing from one to the next, and never fully present where we are. Rushing seems to me like a subtle form of violence. How much consideration do we show to others when we're so focussed on our never-ending lists of tasks and goals? Is there a risk that we'll end up like the Priest and the Levite in the parable of the Good Samaritan - both busy men on important errands, no doubt - and pass by on the other side? I'm now discovering that 'less can be more'. That one unhurried conversation with a close friend nourishes both of us more than any number of rushed chats. That joy is not related to the number of things I do or to how many places I visit, but is a function of my inner state - my being present in the moment whatever I'm doing and wherever I am. So I take a break. Board again the slow train to Bodo. And let myself enjoy the views. 
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AuthorPeter Parr: Quaker, writer and former member of the British minigolf team. (Actually those are all just roles I play. Words can't describe who any of us really are.) 
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