The Speed of Joy

Slow is fast.

That was Robert’s mantra, my psychoanalyst who steadied me through the storms of my forties.

I would burst into his office late, breathless, smiling my practiced smile, hoping to bend time.

But Robert would not bend. He sat, kind but unmoved.

“Slow is fast, Dominique.”

I carried those words like a pocket stone, heavy with paradox,

back into the world of rushing deals and restless nights.

Years later, in another language, the same lesson found me again—

Com paciência se vence tudo.

With patience, all can be overcome.

Whispered by a teacher of the Amazon forest, carried on the breeze of Portuguese hymns.

And then, there was Monsieur Laurent.

His piano room smelled of incense and icons,

walls watching as my daughter Chloé’s fingers found notes

with the ease of someone born with music stitched in her palms.

Week after week, I drove her, sat quiet,

until inspiration shifted in me from shadow to ember.

One Christmas, I asked if I too could learn.

Chloé grinned. She knew before I did: the answer was yes.

At my first lesson, Laurent gave me one golden rule:

“You may slow as much as you need,

but you must not make a single mistake.”

Rebel that I was, I tried shortcuts,

only to stumble, trip, bruise my pride on the black and white keys.

Laurent never flinched. He repeated gently,

“No mistakes, Dominique. Slow you can go, mistakes no go.”

It took weeks to crawl through a Menuet meant for children.

And yet, each evening at the piano, time loosened its grip.

Half-hours became hours. Weariness became rest.

Music, clumsy at first, became a mirror—

and through it, I began to see myself differently.

Then came The Girl from Ipanema.

I stretched, contorted, cursed,

even injured my shoulder chasing that lilting bossa nova.

But one day, months later, it flowed.

Not perfectly, not like the recordings, but alive.

After a small recital, Laurent smiled:

“Joy cannot be faked.

If you wish others to feel it,

you must find it within yourself first.”

His words startled me more than his praise.

Could people hear my melancholy in the notes?

Was I still performing happiness rather than living it?

One day, when fatigue and travel had stolen my practice,

I stumbled through a lesson too fast, too sloppy.

Laurent stopped me mid-bar. His tone turned solemn.

“Dominique, why do we play music?”

I had no answer.

He gave me one:

“We play music to experience joy.

And on the days when you are tired, or unprepared,

do not push, do not chase speed.

Play at the speed of your joy.”

From that moment, something shifted.

The piano became more than an instrument.

It became a compass.

My fingers learned to follow not tempo, but presence.

I began to measure my days not by tasks accomplished,

but by the hum of joy that pulsed—or didn’t—through them.

And here’s the paradox Robert knew all along:

when I slowed into joy,

life itself sped up.

Slow is fast.

Play at the speed of your joy.

So I offer this, not as a tidy lesson, but as an invitation:

What tempo carries you through your days?

Do you move at the speed of deadlines,

or at the speed of your own joy?

Perhaps the real dare is not to climb higher,

but to slow until you hear the music inside—

notes that only you can play,

a rhythm stitched to your heart.

Pause.

Listen.

And when you play again,

may it be at the speed of your joy.

© 2025 Dominique Bel. Cardboard Wings: A Constellation of Becoming. All rights reserved.