There are new movements, and then there are new movements. How about something called The Art of Living Slowly? This organization, begun in Italy by Bruno Contigiani, is spreading rapidly! (Is that a contradiction in terms?)

You can find a lot of websites that are part of the “slow movement.” I just bought a cookbook called The Slow Mediterranean Kitchen and have one called Slow Cooking: Not So Fast Food on my wish list.

There was a Slow Day—on a Monday of all days—in New York City recently, modeling itself on the World Slow Day that occurred earlier in Italy. During World Slow Day people received citations for walking too fast. Participants in a Slow Day marathon attempted to travel 656 feet without stopping, in no less than an hour and 27 minutes. People walking through the center of the city during rush hour had their speedy movement halted when someone stopped them to hand them a poem. (more…)

All of us have some special location that speaks to our hearts. A field of corn as far as the eye can see. A mountain that draws our eyes upward. A beach or seashore where we gaze toward a far-distant horizon. A valley of wildflowers. An old homestead where even the footprint of an old structure stirs warm memories.

All of us, too, have had the experience of watching a place change in a way that destroys its specialness for us. A highway comes too close; toxic waste clogs a stream; developers cut off the top of a beautiful hill; smog obscures a distant vista. Something very important is lost to us. We feel sad.

Researchers in Australia assert that this is a new type of sadness. When parts of our landscape change in detrimental ways, we lose the sense of “home” that these locations provided us previously. A name has been coined for this phenomenon: solastalgia. Solastalgia comes from the root word that means comfort: solacium and from the root word that means pain: algia. Solastalgia is the condition when we long for a natural setting that is now changed forever. As one researcher put it, this is a form of homesickness we experience even while we are still “at home.” (more…)

Imagine this:

You are driving into a town in the Netherlands called Makkinga. There is a traffic sign that reads “Verkeersbordvrij,” which translates “free of traffic signs.” This means there are no stop signs, no road markings, no parking meters, no pedestrian crossings. There are no stopping restrictions nor even any lines painted on the streets.

Instead of traffic rules and signs in Makkinga, there is the idea that streets are shared by drivers and pedestrians on equal grounds. The assumption that drivers own the road is replaced by the assertion that everyone has the same access to the public space. The thought is that if drivers are going to have to pay attention to pedestrians and bicycle riders and other vehicles—with no help from traffic signals and road signs—they will slow down and be more alert. (more…)

Let’s start with two disparate pictures and a piece of a poem.

Here is a photo I shot in a public square in The Hague one cold snowy day.

click image for larger view

© Elizabeth Harper Neeld

I was smitten by these two dogs. Not only by their beauty–with their sleek ginger-red coats and matching blue collars—but also by the almost identical stance they took when they ate. I stood in front of these elegant animals, who gave no sign that a human being was anywhere near them, and wondered: what causes both of these dogs to turn their heads the same way when they eat? To twist their bodies in similar directions? To eat at a pace that keeps both of their heads in the bowl at the same time in an almost identical position? (more…)

Last October I had the pleasure of being on Mackinac Island in northern Michigan for the first time. You probably remember that beautiful place and the majestic Grand Hotel from the 1980’s movie “Somewhere in Time.” Christopher Reeves plays the part of a playwright who falls in love with the picture of a beautiful woman and chooses to leave current time to go back to 1912 to be with her. If you have seen the movie, you remember the beautiful cliffs, the sparkling water of the Straits of Mackinac and the horses and carriages (which are still the only way to get around the island unless one walks. No cars allowed.)

One afternoon during my stay on the Island I was using a narrow dirt path to go from the West Bluff down through Marquette Park to the main street of the village. I had been up on the bluff admiring some of the wonderful old homes from the 19th century with their bay windows, unusual roof lines, and high wooden steps. As I began my walk back to the village the weather turned. What began as a sprinkle turned into a full-blown rain gale before I got back to the hotel. So I was both hurrying and being careful as I walked down the sloping path.
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