Soulbuilding lesson 4: Take it Slowly – 6 lessons from a snail.

The past couple of weeks have not been great for me. Having thought that I could predict a pattern in my response to chemotherapy each week, I have been proved wrong. Fatigue has been my constant companion, despite all my attempts to eat better, stay hydrated and get some exercise. It was worsened last week by the reaction to additional medications that will ultimately strengthen my bones and prevent bone cancer secondaries. The addition of flu symptoms and high temperature to the existing impacts of chemo made life very difficult. Of course, my instant response was to shame and criticise myself for “not doing more to help yourself”, “coping better”, being “lazy and pathetic” and “failing to get on with it properly”. Oh how tired I am of those critical voices.

However, I did finally manage to get myself out into nature, walking in my local woods. I feasted on the beauties of oncoming Autumn; delicate light, the sharpness in the air that tells of the winter to come, and the wonderful smell of rich dampness, soil and fallen leaves mingled with fungi. I felt my breathing deepen and my blood pressure drop as the gentleness of this golden season entered my bones. The Universe responded with some interesting reading material on Facebook, including a reference to an intriguing book: The Sound of A Wild Snail Eating by Elisabeth Tova Bailey. How could I resist such a title?! The internet did its magic and I had the beautiful thing in my hands within a day. Small enough to be consumed in a couple of sittings, it was my companion through another dose of chemotherapy, leaving me warm and joyful, and filled with a sort of hope.

The book is an odd combination of personal journal and scientific research. The author tells of her experience when a sudden illness left her severely debilitated and disabled for several years: for the two recounted in detail in the book she was largely unable to sit up or move independently. Uprooted from her farmhouse in the country to a small apartment in the city so that she could be cared for adequately, her life became one of isolation apart from carers’ visits once or twice a day, and occasional friends visiting at weekends when they could. One friend brought her some violets from her local woods, complete with a wild snail that she thought the author might enjoy. And so began the story of a curious relationship between author and snail, a mixture of observation, affection, attachment and science. In a gentle non-heavy-handed way, the author presents information and insights about the life and habits of the snail that invite us to consider what we might learn from such a mundane mollusc.

6 Lessons from a snail:

• Rest whenever possible: the snail is a nocturnal creature, generally exploring its surroundings by night and sleeping by day, interrupting its daytime dozing only to explore new additions to its world (such as a piece of mushroom), before retiring, in unhurried fashion, to rest for a bit longer in a shaded and protected nook. We all need to rest more and pay attention to how we use our energy, whether or not we are ill (or indeed a snail).
• Take it slowly: the snail is the master of going slowly and steadily through life, seeming to savour the experience of each moment before moving on, fully immersed in the sensory processing of every encounter. Slowing down allows us to experience whatever we are experiencing – the catch for us emotional/psychological human beings is that this often includes the stuff we are trained to avoid or turn away from. As Brene Brown points out however, we cannot selectively numb ourselves – we shut out the painful stuff only at the cost of numbing out the good along with it. Allowing ourselves to take the process of noticing and the challenge of feeling at our own pace is one way forward.
• Persist, one thing at a time: the snail pauses when it meets an obstacle in its path, explores the blockage thoroughly through antennae and foot, before it keeps on keeping on towards its original objective, climbing up and over fallen branches, or ferns, or leaves. No distractions, no rethinks unless there is actual danger. Keeping going, when we know we are on the right path, will have its blockages and challenges, but as long as we are moving forward, however slowly, we are making progress.
• Digest the dead stuff: the snail’s diet is largely rotting vegetation, or the fungus that grows on such material. It seems to prefer the fallen, declining leaves to fresh ones, the mulch on the ground rather than greenery that is still growing. As humans we too need to digest and process the past, to allow us to take from it the nutrition we need in our hearts and souls, but also to let go of what has truly no goodness left in it.
• Clear out the toxins: at one point Elisabeth feeds the snail a food mix that is recommended by the local snail farming society. She is then upset to observe the snail obviously in distress, pouring mucus from every orifice and retreating to its hiding place. The snail survives (and is never fed the mix again), clearly having had to purge the toxins from its system through the mucus. Humans too need to detox, not in some dietary fad where a strange herbal concoction can cleanse our system, but by expressing our pain, grief, loss, anger, hurt, fear. All of these are held in our bodies, absorbed by our cells and potentially setting us up for serious illness (explored at depth in Gabor Mate’s book “When the Body Says No”). As my own therapist once pointed out as I reached for another handful of tissues to wipe my eyes and most of my face, “Your body will always provide you with enough mucus to allow you to release the emotions that need to be released” (yuk, but how very snail-like).
• Retreat and protect yourself when needed: the snail has an amazing advantage over its cousin the slug, in that it carries its house on its back. On an everyday basis it has a safe place to sleep, and can escape most predators (apart from thrushes). However, there is more to the snail’s shell than this. Snails both hibernate in winter and aestivate in hot weather. When they do so, they withdraw into their shell and produce a hard seal from their slime which allows them to conserve heat and moisture within the shell. In hotter weather, they also have the option of retreating further into the shell, into the moisture of its depths, and producing a further seal each time they do so. What an amazing system of multiple doors! As humans, we also need a safe daily retreat, our “home”, where we can rest and recover, restoring ourselves after the challenges of being in the world. And we need the facility of seeking a deeper retreat at times, when we seal ourselves off from the world to be quiet, to take more soul-feeding recuperation time, whether through illness, exhaustion or a general need to remove ourselves from our normal routine and recover – and in these times perhaps more than others, we need more substantial protections against the onslaught of normality. In the much talked about modern world of 24/7 access, always being available and reachable through our myriad devices, perhaps the idea of the snail’s multiple doors is a useful one to consider. How much contact do you want at any particular time and how many doorways seems the right level of protection, whether you feel just an everyday tiredness or have reached the place where you need to hibernate for a while?

It may seem a bizarre statement, but, having read this delightful book, I feel as if I have acquired a new internal protector, who might go into battle with my critical, demanding and shaming voices of old. A guardian with immense curiosity, strength, and protections, persisting on its journey, supported by magical slime, and with delicately waving antennae.