The Beauty of Going Nowhere Fast

The kids ask why elephants never run and just stand there a lot.

I’ve been thinking about time again—mostly because I’ve been rewatching Star Trek: Discovery. That show has a way of making you reflect on big ideas. Alternate timelines, long journeys, building something that matters across centuries. Somewhere between an episode and a bedtime routine, I found myself thinking about Wyrdstead.

I haven’t looked at the site in a while. Not because I don’t care about it—but because I care about it long-term. Wyrdstead was always meant to be a slow-burn project, but I built the site originally to nudge myself into action. A place that lived outside of a half-kept Notion page. A little lighthouse for future me.

Since starting Wyrdstead—or maybe a little before—I’ve noticed I often treat time like an excuse. “I’ll work on it when the kids are back in school.” “I’ll write that post when I’m less busy.” “I’ll take that first step once I’ve figured everything out.” And I don’t think that’s necessarily wrong. Time is a factor. Life is full. But lately, I’ve been trying to see time differently. Less as a barrier, more as a part of the process.

Time isn’t always the thing standing in the way.
Sometimes, it’s the thing that makes the way.

I’ve been thinking of Wyrdstead like a slow cooker.

You don’t babysit a slow cooker. You just know what you’re doing. You toss in good ingredients—dried beans, fresh broth, warm spices. You trust yourself. You walk away. You live your life. You take the kids to camp, or plan the next trip, or meet up with friends, or just sit for a minute. You come back hours later and—bam—dinner’s ready. Not magically. Not accidentally. But because time and heat and intention did their work.

That’s how Wyrdstead is feeling these days. Not inactive. Just in progress, off in the corner, cooking. And it makes sense. If I had a farm already, I wouldn’t be starting big new projects in the middle of summer. Summer isn’t a quiet time—it’s growing season. You’re up at dawn. You’re tending what’s already planted. You’re keeping things alive. The fixing, the planning, the building—that comes later, in the colder months, when the porch isn’t swamped in heat and your market schedule clears out.

Right now, my farm is made of family vacations, summer camp breaks, work deadlines, and a mile-long list of daily life things. That’s the work of this season. It's not nothing. It's just not the season for pulling new dreams out of the ground. And that’s okay.

I still want a farm. I still want to grow vegetables and have markets and live that grounded, land-based rhythm. But I also know: waiting will make it better. So for now, I let it simmer. A little writing here. A long run there. A conversation that sparks a new thread. Each one is an ingredient.

Not everything needs to be done fast.
Not everything needs to be done now.

Some dreams take longer because they’re meant to last.