I'm Adali Mone, and this is The Slowdown.

Every Thursday, when I take out the trash, I think about how I quantify the value of

my life.

Every laundry day, every time I check the mail, it feels like this is how I know time

is passed.

We roll out the recycling, we move the lawn, we watch as the seasons change.

The day is broken up into the hours in which I feed the dog, morning, noon, and evenings.

Yes, she gets lunch.

I give myself lunch so the dog gets lunch, too.

I can find a steady rhythm in the needs of another being, something sustainable, and

something I can count on.

I walk the dog around the neighborhood, and even she has her routines.

She stops at the neighbor's P&E and tries to pee on it before we gently guide her further

along, and my husband makes the joke that the P&E should be called a pee on me.

And this is how time passes.

One night, there's the glow of the TV screen.

Some books moved back upstairs to the office to keep surfaces clean and clear.

There is safety and security in these routines.

I can find myself counting on them.

And yet, I also don't want to get lost in them, or rather, I want to be sure I'm doing

them with intention, noticing the walk, the dog, the P&E.

My husband's good company.

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