Patience

This year has been a challenge. Changes blew through, bringing a different schedule, more intensity, and a shift in focus away from where I want to be. The election brought dissonance and division and the general society has been difficult to tolerate. I turned off the news and frequently found myself turning to music as my chosen distraction on the way to work. I took a step back from social media. In fact, in the past month, I have chosen to observe for a while. Just observe.

One point I have taken from my observations: it seems patience is a trait that few people possess nowadays. We are not nice to each other as we go about our daily business, and I think it’s because we are wrapped up in our own lives. We fail to look outside of ourselves, put ourselves in another’s shoes, and recognize that each of us, in whatever way possible, is trying our best in that given moment.

Case in point: recently, I was in line at the local CVS. I was behind the woman who was next in line. But the customer at the counter had left her wallet in the car, and she apologized as she ran out of the store to get it. This tiny little wrinkle seemed to throw the next-in-line-woman into a tizzy. She began sighing. Loudly. She shifted from one foot to the other. She tapped her foot on the floor, and she turned to me and rolled her eyes, most likely in an attempt to pull me in to her impatience.

Meanwhile, I was feeling sorry for the woman who had run to the parking lot. I could so see myself leaving my wallet (my keys, my brain…) in the car—even though I’ve never done so—that when the impatient woman tried to pull me in, I smiled sweetly while I clutched my tissues and my M&Ms. The forgetful woman was gone for two—maybe three—minutes, but her brief absence certainly annoyed the woman behind her in line. And when we are impatient and not taking advantage of the downtime to enjoy the moment’s pause, time tends to pass more slowly.

This small instance of impatience is one of many I have witnessed in the past few months. I have to wonder: what is the hurry? Why are we so unable to relax and support those around us rather than rush past them with little care for anything outside of our own lives?

Before I judge or become impatient, I am going to take a deep breath and imagine what the other person might be going through. Maybe she forgot her wallet because her first and forever best friend just passed away, and she is trying to hold it together. Maybe the person who is still stopped in front of me at a traffic light that has turned green has a job that just isn’t paying the bills—and the bills are due. Maybe the woman whose cart is in the middle of the aisle at the grocery store is distracted because her grown child is an addict, and she is at the end of her rope.

Patience. It is one of the best gifts we can give to the world. And one of the best gifts we can give to ourselves as we navigate the world. Take a deep breath and give patience a try.

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It’s been a crazy busy ridiculous fall. Wednesday was Halloween, and I didn’t have time to buy candy until after work. On Wednesday. Because I’m efficient like that. When I left work, I discovered that everyone was exiting the highway where I usually enter, and that can only mean one thing—traffic is bad. Very bad. Going south when I needed to go north was probably not the best idea, but I needed treats for my little goblins. Maybe the errand would allow the highway to clear up a bit.

The candy run was quick. As I cashed out, I texted my son that the highway was backed up and I wasn’t likely to be home right away. Back in the car, I selected some good driving tunes and settled in for the long, slow trip. Navigating the entrance ramp, a nice driver in an SUV waved me into the lane in front of him. I thanked him, and there I sat, moving at a snail’s pace along with a bajillion other cars.

Now, there’s a certain way this is designed to work. If people are patient and friendly and kind, the traffic moves smoothly, and we all get where we are going. It might take a little longer, but we’ll all get there. But Friends, listen… people are crazy! I mean, not necessarily you, per se, but there are a lot of impatient people on the roads. And when there are a lot more cars on the road than usual, it can be downright dangerous.

Here’s the thing. Everyone on the road is behind the wheel of a potentially deadly weapon. When one person decides that he or she needs to be in the front of the line, and the front of the line is well beyond the horizon, things are not going to go well. In fact, when I exited the highway (onto a relatively long exit ramp), I had to sit through three light cycles to take my left-hand turn. Just before I turned, a car came speeding up on my right and cut into the smoothly moving line of patient drivers. Really?

If you are that impatient when you are on the road with so many other people, what are you like when you are not in your car? Are you really so self-important that you can’t obey the rules of the road, putting everyone—including yourself—at risk? Most importantly, what is all the rush about?

Perhaps instead of constantly pushing to get to the front of the line, pushing the speed limit and the driving abilities of both you and those around you, you might, instead, think of your driving time as an opportunity to be present in your life, notice the people around you, and reflect on where you are going (both right now and in the grander scheme of your life). Put away the phones, the food, the notepad, the book, the map, the list, the GPS, etc. You might use this as an opportunity to commune with God or with nature or with yourself. In other words, you might use your road time as a chance to slow down to the speed of life and think about what really matters.

And then, when you have mastered the art of being patient and kind while on the road with so many people, you might take that skill out into the rest of the real world. We could use some patience and kindness in society these days. Perhaps our time on the road is where we could begin. If we can be kind to the person who simply wants to switch lanes to get out from behind a particularly slow truck, we might be able to be kind to the person whose arms are too full to open the door. If we can be present while we are driving, maybe we can put down the phone while we are interacting with the cashier at the grocery or the waiter at the restaurant or better still, our children at home who just want to have a real conversation.

Because what I have found is that kindness snowballs. It starts out with one small gesture and it grows in momentum. As you move throughout your day, be present. Notice what is going on around you. Make one small gesture of kindness and see if it grows.

 

{Photo by Robin Pierre on Unsplash}

Firefly Season

It’s firefly season in New Hampshire, a magical time that awakens the memories of long summer days and playful nights from my childhood. Each year, I discover firefly season quite by accident, and it always takes me by surprise—as if I had forgotten that fireflies exist.

This year, I was walking along a path through the woods with my children. I saw a tiny yellow-green flash against the darkness of the woods. And then another. “Fireflies!” I exclaimed, though my children had already seen them. Each evening since, I have taken a walk just before dusk darkens to night, so I might once again experience their fleeting magic before they slip away until next year.

Fireflies bring me back to childhood summers. Bedtimes were extended to accommodate early July activities—picnics and fireworks and ice cream. We would venture out into the darkness with jars to catch as many of these magical insects as we could. Bugs that light up! We would follow them with our eyes, attempting to predict their path in the darkness, hoping their bright tails would reappear where we were expecting them. As we opened our jars to catch the next firefly, one or two might escape, and the chase would begin anew. At the end of our hunt, when it was way past time to go to bed, we would open our jars and set them all free.

Firefly season always brings me back to those magical nights of childhood. I can feel the warm summer air and soft breezes. I can smell the scent of grass and dew. I can hear the muffled voices of my parents by the open window and the squeals and giggles of childhood.

When I spot the first firefly,  I am right there, surrounded by all the richness of life.

{Photo by Steve Halama on Unsplash}

Simplify

I work from home during the summer, so this year I have decided to take advantage of the more relaxed schedule to take on the project of cleaning out my house. I am not moving. My kids are not moving. But we have way too much stuff in our relatively small townhouse. Rooms are not being used to their fullest potential, and the clutter is beginning to take over.

We have lived here for 14 years, and it amazes me that we have acquired so much stuff without weeding out what we are no longer using. Yikes! So this summer, I am getting rid of all of the junk, clutter, and just stuff we no longer need. This stuff—it doesn’t matter to me. Living life without all the encumbrances… that is what matters.

One step in the process is to sell whatever is still useful, usually on the local online yard sale sites and usually at a steal. Last weekend was my first foray into the online yard sale arena. I posted two items of furniture, just to see what would happen.

I posted the items late Friday night right before I went to bed, and by Saturday morning, no one had responded. Yep, the immediate gratification we have all come to enjoy on social media was not happening. So I sat down to work in my online classroom, figuring I was not going to sell my items, but knowing there is always the donation route.

It wasn’t long before I had messages from individuals interested in both of my items! And I was messaging them back to decide on a pick up location and time. At one point, I was messaging one of the buyers about a pick up time while simultaneously messaging a friend about something completely unrelated. My son looked on, unaware that I had pulled in a chat with a friend as well as the two buyers.

“Get them bidding against each other,” he told me. “That’s the way to maximize profits and minimize friends!” This last statement held a tiny hint of glee, as if he had just given away some closely guarded secret.

“Well,” I responded. “That would be a good idea, but I really just want this stuff out of my house. And I’m not messaging two people who want to buy the same thing.”

“Oh, too bad,” he stated. “It was a great idea, and it would get you the most money.”

Yes, I thought. If you are a businessperson. But this stuff (and its complications) doesn’t matter to me. My focus for this summer is to simplify.

Simplicity will be the best reward!

Wonder

The other day, I was on my way out to the car for work when I noticed that the azalea bush at the bottom of my front steps had little pink buds on it.

Let me backtrack for a moment. When I say “azalea bush,” I am exaggerating just a bit. When I first moved here in 2004, there was an azalea bush there. Over the years, it was overtaken by some unexplained rot/mold/disease, and each spring, it appeared to be closer and closer to the doom of nonexistence. One year, when the condo association landscapers came to prune the bushes, I asked them if there was anything they could do to save it. The manager surveyed the sad little bush, shook his head, and told me that he would cut off the dead parts, but the bush would probably need to be removed. He worked away at it for a bit and when he was done, there was little left. “I don’t think that’ll help, but we’ll see,” he told me.

And for the past several years, my struggling azalea bush has been little more than a bundle of sawed off stumps with some dried twigs sticking up. Every now and then, a leaf appears, but nothing more.

So imagine my surprise when I walked out the door on a beautiful spring morning, and the beginnings of an azalea bush were growing from one side of the bundle of old rotten bush-parts. Tiny shoots flaunted bright pink buds that caught my eye. It wasn’t just one twig with a bud or two. It was a forest of shoots, each with multiple leaves and buds.

That afternoon when I returned from work, I gave the little bush some TLC. I carefully removed all of the rotten pieces, one by one. I pulled them out and created a pile of refuse next to my walkway. Now, there is more room for the shoots to grow and flourish.

I had almost given up hope on this little bush, but somehow I knew the life would return and the azalea would see spring again. And I was right—there was just enough life left in the roots connected to those old, dry twigs to send up shoots that will someday be a whole new bush.

“Always be on the lookout for the presence of wonder.”     – E. B. White

Uncompromising…

If there is one very important lesson I’ve learned in life, it’s that there are some things you just can’t compromise. Sure, you can compromise on decisions like what to have for dinner, who will take out the trash, or even where you will live, work, or attend school. But the one thing you cannot compromise is the very essence of who you are. And I mean: The. Very. Essence.

When you compromise that part of yourself, either consciously or subconsciously, things begin to suffer. You begin to suffer. At first, it will be almost imperceptible. There will be a vague feeling of malaise. As it intensifies, things will seem to be… well, “off,” but you won’t be able to grasp exactly what is not right.

At the same time, you won’t be able to move closer to where you are supposed to be—your true purpose in life. You will feel stuck. And that’s because you are. If you compromise your true self, you cannot grow and experience life fully. Everything will seem flat.

Recently, I’ve been working to round myself out and fluff myself back up. Like an over-used pillow, years of tending to the needs of others have taken their toll. Before I started this journey of self-(re)discovery, I had been feeling flat and lifeless.

No doubt this will sound cliché, but the work I am doing is to discover the purpose of life. And I don’t mean the grandiose philosophical idea of “the purpose of life,” but I am particularly working toward the purpose for my life. Perhaps this is something I should have figured out years ago, but then again, I wonder if anyone ever truly figures it out….

This past weekend, I was moving through my day when the uncompromising essence of me smacked up against a tiny shard of the divine purpose of my life. The result was a collision so intense that it knocked me to my knees and brought tears in my eyes. And now I know.

I know if I can quell the noise long enough for regular, daily reflection, I can move toward that space—where essence and purpose are in perfect harmony and lead to a life that is so captivating that I will become fully entrenched in the work and invested in all that comes next.

And I know that in the pursuit of a life of amazing energy and passion and grace, some things just can’t be compromised.

Solitude

It is dark and quiet and claustrophobic. A dim light glows from my iPad, currently in “night” mode, as the words of my book dance across the pages. There are other lights shining in my periphery, the reading lights of passengers across the aisle, and a row of gold and red “fasten seatbelt” icons starts above my head and runs toward the front of the plane. The constant low roar of the jet’s engines fills the silence that might otherwise be deafening, stuffing the cabin with its noise.

The book I am reading is one I have been poking my way through for a month or more. Poking. I am not a fast reader, but I have allowed this one to stretch out because it fits where I am in my life, and it allows me to both reflect and catch up with my emotions. If I finish it, the journey will be over.

The journey through Kelly Corrigan’s Tell Me More is one that celebrates life and death, and focuses on both happiness and grief. She talks of the love she had for her father (recently deceased) who supported her through the bumpiest of times—the back-sliding, the disappointments, the struggles of growing up. She talks of his life, his death, and how she’s been since. But there are other stories in the book. Losing her close friend, raising her children, parenting mistakes and triumphs. But it is the stories of her father that resonate most deeply with me because I am right there.

At various points through the book, I have cried. And now, sitting in the darkened cabin of an airplane hurtling through the night, I push my way to the end of the book, and I cry once more. The dark masks my tears, but I am not trying to hide. Grief is a part of a life—part of our deep and loving relationships. This writer, she gets it. The grief doesn’t go away. It quietly walks beside us, slipping into our consciousness every now and again when we least expect it.

As I read, as I work, as I parent, as I live… the grief is there. Every day, I relearn how to live with it as my life situations change around me. Here, stuffed inside the cavity of an airplane, the lessons are learned anew. When the plane lands and the passengers tumble out, I will reflect on this moment of solitude among the masses. And I will remember that grief is a shared experience.