I’m not a naturally patient person. But if there’s one lesson I’ve been learning lately, it’s the lesson of being patient. To be patient in my writing, to be patient in life in general. They say life isn’t about the destination, it’s about the journey. They say you must slow down, stop to smell the roses, and learn that everything happens in its own time. The story gradually unfolds, the sculptor must take great care when chipping away at the delicate lines in the stone. Chip too hard, too quickly, and the lines will be spoiled. Breathe life into your words, choose them with care. Craft your sentences with love and strength.
And life? So many times over the past two years, I’ve felt as if I were floating underwater, holding my breath, waiting till I can resurface and breathe air again. So many times I’ve tried to come up, only to be told now is not the time. I’ve sunk back down again, my hair floating around my face, the water reclaiming me, waiting, waiting. So many times I think, soon. Soon I can breathe again.
And still I can’t. The time is not yet.
But there are other things. Little things in life that bring small joys. Laughing with friends. Sitting in the garden, pushing my hands into the cool, moist earth. Flowers blooming in sunshine. A small kindness, precious in its unexpectedness. Books. The moon. Writing my stories. There are always things along the way, even if the road is particularly rough.
Even if life is not at its best, I must take a deep breath and continue to hold it beneath the surface of the water, waiting till the time when I can rise up and break through the surface and feel sunlight on my face. In the meantime, I continue to float, to feel the weightlessness of my body under the water, see the light shimmer and fracture against the blue-green depths. And I will wait. I will be patient. Soon.