By nature, I am an incredibly impatient person. When I decide I want something, usually after considerable weighing of options and taking myself far too seriously, I want it now. Yesterday. Pronto.
GET ON IT.
Funny how life doesn’t work that way. Even though we live in an increasingly “gimme now!” instant satisfaction “why didn’t you text me back within 2 minutes?,” culture, the best things take time. Lots of time.
My current list of things that demand patience for the best results: knitting, writing, losing weight — even making a great cup of coffee. French press takes considerably longer than that Via nonsense.
And never mind the tome I could write on how building the right relationships take more patience than one could imagine. Being the best sister, a compassionate daughter, a strong and understanding friend, a doting girlfriend. How these demand setting aside the “ME ME ME” inherent default!
Gardening, too. The garden went in this weekend, which is such a change from my Arizona schedule. I’m planting tomatoes in June. In Tempe, I’d have already harvested the bulk of the crop and would be ameliorating the soil for a-heat-of-summer rest, and fall rebound. In Golden, the rule is you plant after Mother’s Day. I am a couple weeks late, but I’ve got tomatoes, cukes and lots of squash planted with dreams of canning, pickling and dried gourds hanging in the winter pantry. (Also, dreams of one day having un jardin comme ca.)
Having my hands in the earth, feeling my lower back ache after hours of weeding and hauling bags of top soil, soothing the blisters on my thumbs left behind by the shovel and broom — all odd pleasures of knowing that with a bit of patience and the magic of nature, this little plot of land will provide nourishment.
One seed, drop of water and ray of sunshine at a time.