Learning the Art of Savoring
On the contrary, I’m actually a slow eater. I usually chew my steak in smaller bites. Not because I’m attempting to taste every ingredient and molecule in my food, but because my stomach can’t handle the rush. While my eating habits seem exempt from the time crunch, my life does indeed move fast. I grew up in an immigrant working-class family. Efficiency was always the priority: ironing my uniform the night before school, arriving at the gate six to eight hours before a flight, and viewing any form of leisure as laziness. And don’t let them find out you’re a creative. Slowing down was not an option, especially when money was tight. On the rare mornings when my mom had the time and energy to make breakfast before work, I’d quickly eat my eggs and pancakes before she rushed us out of the house. My stomach was, in fact, hurting. You see, surviving takes up a lot of space. It doesn’t leave room for many things, including our humanity. It asks us to move fast enough not to experience. It frames rest as unproductive. It bullies us into enduring rather than delighting. I didn’t become aware of my lack of savor until my junior year of college. And it would be stupid of me not to address the elephant in the room.
Financial stability is a major component of a life full of savor, especially in Western culture. I feel almost embarrassed to say that my class awakening came so late in life. I was in Baltimore, visiting the family home of a former partner. The architecture of the house confused me. It was as if a modern and industrial home had a baby. The third floor was decorated with floor-to-ceiling windows. The floorboards didn’t creak. The wood was expensive. The decor was heavy. And the room surrounded by glass was actually a painting studio. I stood in that naturally lit room, enamored but also painfully conscious of how different my world was.
From the window, I could see the glare of the sun beaming off the white Tesla parked outside. It’s not really the material that produces savoring, but the atmosphere it’s shaped from. To have a room dedicated to a passion that you keep solely for your own delight felt so unfamiliar to me. Planned dinners. Picking out books from a ceiling-high shelf. Grazing boards with assorted cured meats. Stopping by that special place for your husband’s favorite wine. The only thing I could do was process. I felt naive.
While I had a conception of a slower life through media, I had never seen or felt it with my own eyes. It wasn’t a moment carried by aesthetics; it was raw and real. Vacations don’t quite capture that same feeling because they’re temporary and tied to a place you can’t really call home. But when your home exists somewhere exempt from constant rushing, it makes you feel so… human. It feels so rich. For those of us fluent in surviving, we’ve become numb to the mundanity of the human experience. We measure our lives by milestones, constantly aiming to optimize ourselves and our time, while unintentionally subscribing to a cycle of burnout and exhaustion. But savoring is not just something confined to Western walls. It’s also a mindset.
What initially felt like something being dangled over my head, I soon realized was within my grasp; I just had to take it. My mother doesn’t slow down for anything in this life except her morning tea and maybe her grandkids. She’ll take an extra few minutes to warm it over the stove and steep it slowly between two cups. That ritual was non-negotiable for her. It remained untouched by her fast-paced life. I began to ask myself: What parts of my life do I resist time from infiltrating? What am I actually willing, or wanting, to slow down for? What fears do I have surrounding stillness? Routines and rituals are imperative to my sanity, personally. I think there’s something sacred and feminine about them. They ground me.
If I’m going to be hanging by a thread all week, I might as well look and feel good doing it. I might be exhausted, but I know I treated myself well. My skincare, hair, diet, wellness, and sleep; I’ll slow down for those, for sure. Though one day, I hope to say God confidently. While I pray daily for Him to guide my next steps, slowing down and savoring His presence is something I’m not yet keen to do. I aim for a kind of stillness that has no music to fill the air. The kind that asks me to take in His presence in full.
The kind of savor that acquires a taste for His depth. The art of savoring translates even into our connections. In this life, we can’t — or won’t — slow down for everyone. Not every conversation lingers, but for the ones that do, we owe it to ourselves to sit in each other’s presence. To notice each other deeply, but carefully. There’s something sacred about acquiring a taste for a certain individual. The longer you sit with them, the more you can appreciate them. It’s not just stimulating to the senses; it’s stimulating to the soul.
