I snort. My eyes flutter open and register a narrow gray beam of morning light from the tiny slit of the window blinds . . . which is wrong. Because lately I wake up in the dark. Dark dark, not gray. Certainly not black. So I’m immediately terrified. I’ve forgotten something, or am horrendously late for work (how is it LIGHT?) and my left leg (under its own control) kicks spastically, sending the blanket formerly folded at my feet into a high arc and landing against a nice to-do pile of intentionally stacked absolutely-as-important-as-could-possibly-be papers that are teetering, balanced on the edge of my desk.
With a shuffling thwap, they fly into the air as if flung by a resolute snow shoveler and a few land in the trash can which is very dangerous as they are very important letters so I leap from my bed and, disoriented, catch my big toe on the unplugged and dangling strand of Christmas lights drawing them nervously taut and then with shocking speed and determination, dislodge the entire curtain rod from its place above my too bright window.
Off-kilter now, and blinded by even more unwelcome dawn, I watch helplessly as gravity sends all of the curtain rings flying down the rod like a runaway theme park coaster slamming onto my keyboard — waking up my computer and keying in three random attempts at passwords then locking the screen. With the Christmas lights plug knobby-doo stuck between the little piggy that went to market and the one who stayed home, I come to standing.
From the kitchen, the coffee maker beeps to let me know that it is no longer heating my carafe, and that the coffee brewed and hitherto held in custody is in jeopardy of cooling as the maker is giving up since no one came to drink.
I stand in the ruins and decide to leap over the whole curtain-and-lights debacle but my slumbering arms at my sides like a zombie lord of the dance slam into the bathroom doorjamb, knuckles making excellent contact for maximum pain, trip on my slippers and barely catch myself face to face with the mirror. SLOW down! I turn back to find my phone . . . still mortified at this light, the HOUR.
But wait. It’s not the end of the world, and I’m not late. It’s just vacation. OH.
Mondays in the world of theater are normally referred to as “dark.” This means that there’s no activity since everybody has put in a really active weekend and Monday is the only day they can take a break, so the lights of the theater are dark, the theater is dark, and everybody who works at the theater is trying to cram every other part of their life — social, business, and otherwise — into Monday.
Vacation is a time when the world goes “dark” on purpose. We upend our days, suspend the grind and try to force relaxation. It can be thoroughly disorienting. Frequently people tell me that by the time they truly calm down, their vacation is pretty much over. An extra hour here or there is nice, but several days in A ROW. A WEEK?
Careful here not to complain, because I know any time off is a luxury many cannot realize, I would like to offer some absolution to those who feel about vacation the way I feel about an all-you-can-eat buffet. Thankful but daunted. Don’t over-schedule, but don’t lie there and do nothing either. Get to that list entitled “things I’ll do when I have a moment”. You look at that list now with a worried eye and an exhausted brow. Slow down.
In a culture that prizes speed, productivity, and constant availability, changing the pace can feel like a radical act. Yet slowing down is often the very thing that allows life to be fully experienced rather than merely managed.
When we rush from one obligation to the next, days blur together. Moments become checklists. Time passes, but it doesn’t linger long enough to leave an impression.
Changing the pace invites us back into our senses. It allows us to notice the way light shifts across a room in the afternoon, how a conversation deepens when no one is watching the clock, or how creativity returns when the mind is not under constant pressure. Slowness creates space — not empty space, but meaningful space where reflection, curiosity, and joy can take root. And you notice what needs dusting.
Living at a gentler rhythm also changes how we relate to one another. When we are not hurried, we listen more closely and respond more thoughtfully. Relationships grow richer because they are no longer squeezed between competing demands, persistent screens. Presence becomes a gift we can actually offer, rather than an intention we never quite fulfill.
Importantly, slowing down does not mean disengaging from ambition or purpose. It means choosing intention over urgency.
It means recognizing that a full life is not measured by how much we accomplish, but by how deeply we engage with what we choose to do. By changing the pace, we reclaim time as something to inhabit rather than conquer. We begin to experience life not as a race to be won, but as a story to be felt — one moment, fully lived, at a time.
You know, there’s a great way to change the pace and create undaunting mini-vacations for yourself. Phone off, tuned in, try live arts. Find performing puppies, the Moth’s engaging stories of self, INVOKE and their virtuosic strings, Guitar Dreams, Mark Lavengood, Magic Rocks . . . so very much to escape this dark winter at City Opera House! Become a member, and “go dark” yourself for a few hours every week this winter. See if you don’t feel better.
See you at the theater.