My Own Chosen Speed
© 2010
Dan Johnson

One of the hardest things I have had to adjust to in life is marching at someone else’s chosen speed. Go left, march to the right, close ranks, speed up, slow down… none of it made any sense to me. Then one day someone said, “It’s not supposed to make sense; you just have to do it.” With that news, I was even more convinced that I had to move at my own chosen speed.

Reports are due now
If it is five minutes late
boss will have a cow!

I never thrived on competition in the work place or in life. I did however constantly work on improving my own work ethics, as well as understanding how I could best fit in this sometimes very confusing world. I made mistakes, that is for sure, but on the whole I am satisfied that when small successes came my way, it was a testimony to maintaining and holding to the principle that just because the ‘in crowd’ or ‘accepted philosophy’ was the correct way, I could march at my own chosen speed.

My mind shuffles on in some melodic beat
Hearing tunes; some sour, many sweet
Playing this constant tune,
Marching on at my own chosen speed.

It takes skill to make it through this life, sometimes I ask myself in wonderment, “How did I make it this far?” The only answer I can come up with is, it was done with luck…90% luck, 5% talent, and 5% learning when I needed to talk, and learning when I needed to shut up. And all the time, through good and bad I learned to move at my own chosen speed.

My heart, sometimes troubled,
My heart is always free,
My heart flutters now;
Like the free bird, sings.

There were a few times in life when I was about to raise the flag in defeat. After all, the poet was right when she said ‘she never promised me a rose garden.’ Among the roses, I did find the thorns, but somehow at the last moment, when all seemed a certain doom, I found the truth of myself buried by fear and shame and rejected conventional thinking, and once again marched on at my own chosen speed.

Like the sultry sounds of jazz man’s saxophone
Wailing out a mournful beat
That goes on sweetly in my head,
I slide through the night,
Marching at my own chosen speed.