I’ve always been drawn to slow work. Mosaics demand that there's no way to rush the process of shaping each piece, fitting it in place, stepping back, adjusting. The pace is deliberate, and in that, there’s beauty. A kind of meditation.
But lately, slowness has taken on a new meaning.
Since becoming a mother, my relationship with time has changed. I no longer have long, uninterrupted hours in the studio. Some days, I barely touch my tools. And in a world that celebrates speed, faster results, more output, it’s easy to feel like I’m falling behind.
Yet, I’m learning that slowness doesn’t mean stillness.
There’s work happening beneath the surface: ideas forming, colors settling in my mind, inspiration collecting in the quiet corners of daily life. Just because I’m not producing as much doesn’t mean I’m not creating.
This is the nature of creative work. It ebbs and flows. It asks for presence. It reminds us that the best things, whether a mosaic, a life change, or a shift in perspective, take time.
One of the things that’s helping me trust this slower rhythm is the land around me.
Living between the mountains and the sea, I’ve begun to notice how the natural world never hurries, yet everything gets done. The same mountain: Mondúver, greets me each evening with a slightly different light. The rocks along the coast wear their shapes like memory, softened by time, not force.
There is wisdom in stone. A kind of patience carved into its very surface. And when I place my hands on the marble, or cut a piece of it, I feel it – an invitation to slow down and to listen. To return to the rhythm of the earth, which moves in seasons, not seconds.
This connection to the material world grounds me. It draws me back into my body when my mind is racing. It teaches me that slowness is not something to overcome, but something to surrender to. That beauty often emerges in the pause, not the push.
So if you’re feeling stuck or impatient, maybe the answer isn’t to do more. Maybe it’s to lean in. To notice the shape of a stone, the curve of a leaf, the weight of your own breath. To trust that the pieces will come together when they’re ready.
What’s your relationship with slowness?
Do you resist it, or do you welcome it?