Patience.
For the last 6 weeks…for the last 3 months, that single word has been the end of all my sighs, the beginning of most of my deeper thoughts (not that I have all that many). I never understood the importance of it. I used to pray for it, but I didn’t grasp what I was praying for, what it meant, what it was, and what its presence, or lack thereof, said about me. Patience.
I used to think of patience as the thing that got me through listening to nagging children, or tantrums of hormonal high school students. That type of patience, though important, is much less than what I’m looking for now, what I’m trying to build now.
My father never rested. His mind never reveled in the present. Past or future, things done or things yet to be completed, were all that filled his thoughts. I never understood that about him, and then…about 3 months ago, staring at the ceiling fan in my room, I understood him better because I realized that I was the same way.
Swept down a rushing river a man grasps frantically at thousands of branches hanging low from ancient trees, but in his frenzy he exhausts himself. There’s a waterfall ahead, there generally is, and he worries that if he doesn’t get out now, he’ll never get out. His judgment is clouded, and time is shorter and shorter with each passing boulder.
Our lives are rivers. They ebb and they flow, they cascade and they mist, they dry and are born anew by rains and storms that shake the foundations of the earth. Our lives are rivers, and we’re on them. Sometimes they rush. Maybe your river is rushing right now. Mine is. Mine has been rushing for quite some time. And I’ve been that man, trying to get hold of a branch, any branch, because I know there’s a waterfall ahead, somewhere, sometime. The problem is, for every good branch, there are hundreds of weak branches, twigs, and pieces of rotted timber, and I’ve been grabbing at all of those too. In my younger days I knew that there was a branch, a big oak branch, waiting to carry me to the shore, and I enjoyed the river when it rushed, but somewhere along the way I lost faith. It’s a sad thing to watch a man lose his faith. It’s an even sadder thing to be the one who loses it.
Is there a branch? I suppose the more important question is: Does it matter if there’s a branch? I cannot, no matter how much I’d like to, instantaneously create one. If there’s a branch, there’s a branch, and I’ll make it to the shore. If not, then off I’ll go, at some point, off some cliff, into some further unknown. Maybe that drop will be the end; maybe that drop will be the beginning, and I’ll find myself in crystal blue pools of water on the planet of Pandora. The fact is, I don’t know where the river leads nor what will come along the way. Maybe I’ll never get to the shore and maybe the shore sucks and deep in the forest are terrible animals waiting to prey on me. (Maybe the shore is wonderful too, just so that you don’t think I’m overly pessimistic and dark.)
The more you live the less you know…that’s what they say. Fuck, that’s what we say (make no mistake, I’ve become part of they now too). And I think the mooooorrreeee you live, the less you know and the less you care. At 18 that sounded pessimistic, at 22 defeatist, at 28 there’s nothing I yearn for more than to just accept that I’m on a rushing river and be indifferent about the next set of rapids…I could just use an inner tube with one of those built in coolers :) Happy rafting.
For the last 6 weeks…for the last 3 months, that single word has been the end of all my sighs, the beginning of most of my deeper thoughts (not that I have all that many). I never understood the importance of it. I used to pray for it, but I didn’t grasp what I was praying for, what it meant, what it was, and what its presence, or lack thereof, said about me. Patience.
I used to think of patience as the thing that got me through listening to nagging children, or tantrums of hormonal high school students. That type of patience, though important, is much less than what I’m looking for now, what I’m trying to build now.
My father never rested. His mind never reveled in the present. Past or future, things done or things yet to be completed, were all that filled his thoughts. I never understood that about him, and then…about 3 months ago, staring at the ceiling fan in my room, I understood him better because I realized that I was the same way.
Swept down a rushing river a man grasps frantically at thousands of branches hanging low from ancient trees, but in his frenzy he exhausts himself. There’s a waterfall ahead, there generally is, and he worries that if he doesn’t get out now, he’ll never get out. His judgment is clouded, and time is shorter and shorter with each passing boulder.
Our lives are rivers. They ebb and they flow, they cascade and they mist, they dry and are born anew by rains and storms that shake the foundations of the earth. Our lives are rivers, and we’re on them. Sometimes they rush. Maybe your river is rushing right now. Mine is. Mine has been rushing for quite some time. And I’ve been that man, trying to get hold of a branch, any branch, because I know there’s a waterfall ahead, somewhere, sometime. The problem is, for every good branch, there are hundreds of weak branches, twigs, and pieces of rotted timber, and I’ve been grabbing at all of those too. In my younger days I knew that there was a branch, a big oak branch, waiting to carry me to the shore, and I enjoyed the river when it rushed, but somewhere along the way I lost faith. It’s a sad thing to watch a man lose his faith. It’s an even sadder thing to be the one who loses it.
Is there a branch? I suppose the more important question is: Does it matter if there’s a branch? I cannot, no matter how much I’d like to, instantaneously create one. If there’s a branch, there’s a branch, and I’ll make it to the shore. If not, then off I’ll go, at some point, off some cliff, into some further unknown. Maybe that drop will be the end; maybe that drop will be the beginning, and I’ll find myself in crystal blue pools of water on the planet of Pandora. The fact is, I don’t know where the river leads nor what will come along the way. Maybe I’ll never get to the shore and maybe the shore sucks and deep in the forest are terrible animals waiting to prey on me. (Maybe the shore is wonderful too, just so that you don’t think I’m overly pessimistic and dark.)
The more you live the less you know…that’s what they say. Fuck, that’s what we say (make no mistake, I’ve become part of they now too). And I think the mooooorrreeee you live, the less you know and the less you care. At 18 that sounded pessimistic, at 22 defeatist, at 28 there’s nothing I yearn for more than to just accept that I’m on a rushing river and be indifferent about the next set of rapids…I could just use an inner tube with one of those built in coolers :) Happy rafting.
You are young. So you know everything. You leap into the boat and begin rowing. But listen to me. Without fanfare, without embarrassment, without any doubt, I talk directly to your soul. Listen to me. Lift the oars from the water, let your arms rest, and your heart, and heart's little intelligence, and listen to me. There is life without love. It is not worth a bent penny, or a scuffed shoe. It is not worth the body of a dead dog nine days unburied. When you hear, a mile away and still out of sight, the churn of the water as it begins to swirl and roil, fretting around the sharp rocks-when you hear that unmistakable pounding-when you feel the mist on your mouth and sense ahead the embattlement, the long falls plunging and steaming-then row, row for your life toward it.
ReplyDeletewest wind #2 by Mary Oliver
your post reminded me of this poem - thanks for the post B!
Peace,
Amber