You can make six paper cranes out of one letter-sized sheet of paper. The two smallest ones would make perfect earrings.
The conundrum is that the language to describe the ineffable splendors and possibilities of our lives takes time to master, takes a certain unhurried engagement with the tasks of description, assessment, critique, and conversation; that to speak this slow language you must slow down, and to slow down you must have some inkling of what you will gain by doing so. Itâ€™s not an élite language; nomadic and remote tribal peoples are now quite good at picking and choosing from developmentâ€™s cascade of new toys, and so are some of the cash-poor, culture-rich people in places like Louisiana. Poetry is good training in speaking it, and skepticism is helpful in rejecting the four horsemen of this apocalypse, but they both require a mind that likes to roam around and the time in which to do it.
Ultimately, I believe that slowness is an act of resistance, not because slowness is a good in itself but because of all that it makes room for, the things that donâ€™t get measured and canâ€™t be bought.
I think I really only have one pet peeve; people who complain about a part of their life but do nothing to fix that problem or improve upon it. Drives me batty.