Today I want to expand on what slow business means beyond photography. It is not just a strategy for my work, it has become a way of living. What does a day in the life of a photographer look like when the pace is intentional and unhurried? For me, it means shorter days, shorter weeks, and a freedom I do not take for granted. The benefit is simple but profound: waking up without an alarm clock, moving through my home at a natural pace, and tending only to the life I have built right here.
The other night my husband came into the kitchen carrying a huge basket of our garden tomatoes. Normally, they would be reserved for his homemade tomato juice, but this year’s crop was smaller than usual. Instead, he is passing them along to me, and I get to decide if they will become a rich tomato soup or a simmering sauce. I say Sauce!
Ordinarily on these mornings, I take my breakfast out onto the patio so my dog can soak up some vitamin D and fresh air. This August has been cooler than most Wisconsin summers, a refreshing change that makes the mornings feel crisp and inviting. The mosquitoes, fueled by all the rain, have been another story. So instead, I dove straight into prepping the tomatoes. I gathered three baking sheets with lips, brushed them generously with olive oil, then washed, chopped, and spread my tomatoes and onions across the pans. I roasted them uncovered at 400° for about an hour and a half. Out on my three -season porch, I plugged in the dehydrator. Between the scent of roasting vegetables and the earthy fragrance of drying herbs, I felt transported. It was heaven, an ideal place in time for me.
When the vegetables were finished, I placed them into the Vitamix for a smooth blend, then poured everything into a stainless pot for a long, gentle simmer. Earlier in the week, I harvested basil, thyme, oregano, lavender, and green peppers. In those moments my mind is quiet in a way it ordinarily cannot attain. Bringing it in, washing it, preparing it, allows me to enter this space of hopefulness. So when I am adding the herbs to the simmering pot that I grew, harvested, and prepared, I feel so rewarded. Into the pot went cubes of my frozen herbs in olive oil, basil and parsley, followed by dried oregano, garlic, pepper, salt, and a touch of all season salt. My goal was simple: let it simmer and slowly adjust the flavors until it tasted just right.
When I am cooking with our ingredients, with our food, and my hands are moving while my mind is quiet, I feel most at home in both my body and my thoughts. I am sure there is an explanation, even a word for that kind of presence. All I know is that I start craving the next meal to prepare, another chance to stay rooted in the moment. I believe these spaces invite me back into the kitchens and gardens of my childhood where I felt loved, nourished, and part of something beautiful.
There is something about a pot simmering on the stove that mirrors the pace I want for my work. Nothing rushed, nothing forced. Just time, patience, and small adjustments along the way until it becomes something worth savoring. That is what slow business has taught me, that growth and creativity are richer when they are given space to develop at their own rhythm. Just like this sauce, my photography and my days are better when I let them unfold gently, with intention.
I have had some unexpected time off lately, and I have savored every moment. Much of it has been spent resting with my pup and helping him heal. We have sat together in the sun, letting the light and fresh air reach his lungs and warm his skin. There have been extra hugs, soft words, and quiet moments that feel like medicine for both of us. These are the kinds of days that make long, hectic stretches away from home unimaginable. I am deeply aware of the gift and the blessing this life is.
The other day my husband and I were talking about our dog’s life and the part we have played in it. We both agreed how fortunate he is that we have been able to embrace him and his needs so fully. I told him about a quote I had come across recently, one that stopped me in my tracks: your dog may be your best friend for about ten years of your life, but you are your dog’s best friend for his whole life. My husband shook his head and asked why I had to be so heavy with it, but I could not help it, that thought stayed with me. It reminded me once again how precious these days are, and how much this slower life allows me to truly be present for them.
That conversation stayed with me, because it touched the heart of why this pace matters so much. Slow business is not just about fewer hours or lighter schedules, it is about being present for the moments that matter, whether that is a simmering pot on the stove, the harvest from our garden, or the time I get to pour into the life of my pup. These are the things that would slip away unnoticed in a life that is rushed and crowded.
Even in these quiet, restorative days, my mind inevitably drifts toward to do lists and future preparations. As I sit down at my computer to write, small corners of my thoughts wander ahead, sketching out the week to come when I will return to a schedule and the steady rhythm of work.
I find it to be a great gift to sit down with pen and paper and write it all out, forming an outline and giving those thoughts a safe, separate place to land. Once they are on the page, they no longer nag at me or hover in the back of my mind. I do not have to worry about forgetting them, and I can return to the rest of my day with more peace.
Lastly, I cannot help but notice the thread of human nature that comes into play while I write and re-read these words. Guilt. That old monster that creeps in and tries to undo the very things we are cultivating in our lives. It whispers that joy must be earned, that rest is undeserved, that slowing down is somehow wrong. I am learning to quiet that voice. To remind myself that joy and rest are not luxuries but gifts, and that in receiving them, I am better able to pour out my best work and my truest self.
Where can you fit in these gifts of luxurious time? Perhaps a morning or evening ritual. A cup of tea slowly brewed and savored. A walk around your yard to take stock in the flowers, grass, and trees that you own and have access to. A phone call to a treasured confidant instead of a text. Look for them. Create them. Live them.
Until next time,
Warmly,
Michelle