High on Happiness

Posts Tagged ‘Patience’

A few years back, loggers had come to the hill and taken all the elders, leaving the youth to manage on their own amidst the carnage.  Fallen limbs and branches deemed unworthy spoils littered the forest’s floor.  It was a time of shock and mourning.

But the forest had endured, and the turkey, deer, rabbits, opossums and raccoons who had fled in terror had returned.  Safe beneath its leafy boughs, they played again and raised their young.

All things have their ebb and flow.  No life escapes its tragedies.  But neither does tragedy strike without leaving opportunity and resources for renewal.  It’s all a matter of having patience and trust, of keeping on, regardless of appearances.

Life always finds a way.  And in the end, endurance is crowned with glory.

August was feeling a bit down in the mouth.  Not that anything was wrong really.  It was just that everything seemed so, well, humdrum.

All the other months since spring had been blessed with such beautiful flowers, and here she was, nothing but grasses, a few remaining daisies, a patch of clover here and there.

She knew, of course, that it was silly to compare herself to the other months.  Everyone has their own gifts.

But right now, looking at herself, she thought her own gifts were nothing to write home about.

What was she for, anyway?  All she did was usher out lovely summer and open the door for autumn’s bright display.  The one was fading; the other hadn’t yet begun.  And she was right in the middle.

She sighed and dozed a little, falling into a dream.

In her dream, a great prince formed in the sky and looked down at her, his eyes sparkling with affection and delight.

“Hello, Sweet August,” he said, softly smiling.  “I heard you sighing and doubting your worth.”

“I’m sorry,” August said to the prince.  “I know I should accept myself just as I am and not wish that I were more.”

“Oh, dear August,” said the prince, “you have no idea how precious you are, how necessary and lovely and loved!  You do far more for those around you than you will ever know.”

“But I feel so ordinary,” August confessed, “and so plain.”

“That’s just because you haven’t yet seen your finest gifts unfolding,” the prince said.  “Let me tell you a secret:  Sometimes when things seem their dullest, it’s a signal that something amazing is about to transpire.  Wait patiently, my dear.  The best is yet to come.”

And with that, the prince dissolved back into the afternoon sky.

August woke from her nap with the prince’s words echoing in her thoughts.  She wrapped herself in patience and went about her tasks—shepherding the bees to the clover, helping the Queen Anne’s lace unfurl, ripening the corn.  The work pleased her and she  felt a new glow of contentment as she busied herself with the details and watched the damsel flies flit through the budding goldenrod.

As she fell asleep that evening, the prince’s words drifted across her mind.   “The best is yet to come.”

She wondered what he meant by that.  Little did she know that in a few hours, she would find out.

She woke feeling peaceful and rested.  Stretching herself over the morning, she slowly opened her eyes. Why, her whole world had been transformed! Before her stretched a beautiful golden bouquet, set off by purple wildflowers and cattails, tall and brown.

“Do you see now, my dear, what your work has wrought?” a voice whispered from the morning’s pastel sky.

Laughing with delight, August rolled into the day.  “I see!  I see!  I see!” she sang.  And the goldenrod turned up its color, and the corn grew sweeter in the fields.

The air itself is steamy; but the sky withholds its rain.  And even though our skin and the skin of the trees and the rocks in the creek bed are slicked with a thin dampness, we are parched and wilted, all of us.

We have been through seasons like this before, of course.  We know that sooner or later the rain will come.  We lock into patience mode and make the best of it, watching, with those whose crops grow brittle in the fields, for a sign of gathering clouds.

Everything has its dry spells.  Friendships, marriages, businesses, careers.  You call on whatever reserves you have to get you by and wait.

You find diversions to while away the time and let yourself study how the landscape looks when it’s dry, when its bare bones are exposed.  Sometimes you find unexpected treasures, features and strengths you hadn’t known were there.

No time is without its blessings.  The key is to accept what is, without wanting it to be different.  Then you’re free to see it with clear eyes, to mine the moment for its goodness, while you wait for the rain.

Despite the powerful urge that sent their leaves unfurling in the morning sun, the cabbages felt no sense of hurry.

The day would feed them in due course.  And meanwhile, how pleasant it was just to stretch their roots into the red, moist soil.

They were eager, of course, to know how it would feel to be grown, to have made the whole journey from seedling to full flower.  Even now, as they woke from the night’s slumber to the calls of the crows  from the lone tree at the edge of the field, they could feel the current of energy expanding all their cells.  It was thrilling just to awaken to its rush and they loved how it whetted their anticipation.

Yet, as great as their future dreams might be, nothing could top the majesty of this very morning.  Right now, this very moment, they were bathed with shimmering droplets of dew that sparkled in the light of the rising sun.  Right now, they could feel its moisture sensuously soaking into their leaves.  Right now, the morning breeze caressed them, carrying the scent of the grasses and wildflowers that edged their field and the songs of the wee birds that flitted through the weeds and sky.

Theirs was a vibrant growth.  But so content were they that they settled into it with deep ease.  Theirs was not a strained patience; they felt no frustration, no sense of wanting things to go more quickly or to be anything but exactly what they were right now.  Theirs was the patience of peaceful joy.  They reveled in the moment, delighting in its details, savoring its infinity of pleasures.

And so they grew, tall and proud and strong.

“Momma!  When can I come out and play?” the little aster called.  “All the other buds have opened.  I want to come out, too!”

The little bud was frustrated.  She felt the sun’s warmth on her outer petals and heard the oooo’s and ahhhh’s of the other buds as they opened to its light.  But here she was, still curled tight.

She wanted so much to be a full-fledged flower.  Every morning when the birds sang their dawn song, she woke expecting to find herself unfurled and free.

“You will open soon enough, my darling,” the mother said.  “Remember, time is wise and always does things in the right order.”

“But Momma, I’m tired of being a bud.  I want to know what it’s like to unfold and stretch my petals.”

“I know, dear,” crooned the mother.  “And a flower you will be.  A sweet one, full of nectar for the bees and dancing in the sun.  But right now, your job is to be a bud, the very best bud you can be.

“Do you feel that wiggling in your little petals?” she asked.

“Yes,” said the bud.  “It kind of tickles.”

“That’s a sign that you’re growing.  You’re itching to grow.  And do you feel your heart filling up with golden nectar?  You’re building up a store of treats to share with the world and to make seeds for the all tomorrows that will come.  Who you are right now is very, very important.  Pay attention to everything you feel.  Isn’t it filled with life?”

“You’re right!” the little bud giggled.  “It is!”

“And it’s just exactly the life that nature designed you to express,” said the mother.  “I know it can be difficult to wait for what comes next, but who you are right now is a miracle, my sweet one.  Be at peace, and I will tell you a story about what it’s like to be a grown up flower.  You can dream about that as you grow.  Dreaming about how you will be tomorrow is a fine way to spend time when you feel stuck with where you are.  Would you like to hear the story?”

The little bud relaxed and felt the life force moving within her and thought about being a miracle, and about being the best bud she could be.  “Yes, mother!” she whispered as she eased into the comfort of her curled petals.  “Tell me the story.”

“Once upon a time,” the mother began, “a sweet little bud was born, filled with all she needed to become a radiant wild aster . . .”

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.For all moms everywhere, the true ones with strong wills and melting hearts, the ones who hold their babies close and let grown babies go, the ones who give up youth, leisure and sleep in the name of nurturing and guiding, the ones who trust instinct and some merciful god to whisper how, to show the way . . .

For their bravery and sacrifice, for their inventiveness and making do, for the wisdom they share, and the songs they sing, for all the long nights and sparkling mornings . . .

For their laughter and beauty, their playfulness and patience, their firm hands and gentle touch, for the traditions they pass on and the stories they tell, and most of all, for their light and endless unconditional love . . .

Our deepest gratitude, and golden flowers.

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Tink sat immobile as a rock watching the snowy vista outside the window. To a human, the scene might have looked drab and unchanging, a featureless world buried beneath a heap of snow.  But to Tink, it was a mesmerizing wonderland.

She saw how the branches of the great pine dropped clumps of snow that dissolved as they fell into a dazzling powder and how crystal drops of water fell from the icicles hanging from the eaves.  She saw the tiny ant crawling across the window pane and heard the grand whistle of the train rolling across the valley.  Suddenly black wings flickered as a bird darted onto a nearby branch, setting off another cascade of falling snow.  A car whooshed past, a streak of shine and color that gave off a great, wet sound and a low rumbling hum.  She could feel the vibrations of its purr against her body as it passed and it felt like music to her.

She wasn’t dreaming of spring, or of dinner, or about her toys or the mouse she saw in the corner of the basement that morning.  No lists of obligations were running through her mind, even though there was plenty of grooming to do.  She wasn’t concerned with finding distraction from the moment; the moment was rich with motion and music.  The fan on the furnace whirred; the refrigerator hummed; the trees danced; snow fell.

To Tink, rooted in the contentedness of being, moments weren’t something to endure.  They were deep treasures to devour with delight.  Her waiting wasn’t filled with boredom, but with alert anticipation of the next sensual pleasure, and the next, and the next.  And each moment was different and held a surprise.

And that is the secret of the patience of happiness.  It’s the wakeful savoring of all that a moment holds.

Some close friends and I were talking today about our personal hopes and plans for the new year that’s about to dawn.  None of us intended to make any formal resolutions.  For the most part, each of us is happy with the paths we are on.  We’re already committed to growing in our awareness, deepening our spiritual consciousness, expanding our skills, developing our talents, moving toward increasingly vibrant health and well-being.

But then one friend confessed that she was feeling stuck and seemed to be going around in dull circles in her life.  Nothing seemed to have any special appeal for her right now.  Nothing was grabbing her interest or attention.  Her life was all questions and no answers.

“Ah!” Charles said, “You’re resting.  That’s what you’re wanting right now.  Enjoy it!”

That’s great advice.  When you find yourself at a standstill, embrace it.  Meet it with open arms, allowing it to be exactly what it is—a time of inner renewal.  When you can learn to enjoy life’s pauses, you’re all the more ready when the time for new creations appears.

Being at a standstill is like being in the midst of a psychic winter.  It feels as if everything has stopped growing.  The nights are long, and the days lack color.  It’s a time when everything seems turned inward.  You hunger for light and yearn for the days when you can run bare-legged beneath a warm and friendly sun.

And yet, if you listen with your inner senses, you can tell that miracles are happening beneath the snow-draped fields.  The bulbs and seeds are alive with magic and silently preparing to birth wonders.  Within the trees, looking so barren and lifeless now, cells are performing secret alchemies that will burst into blossom and leaves.

Yet the soil knows no restlessness, and the trees are masters of waiting.  They are masters of patience, and in their wisdom they say.  “Enjoy the beauty of the moment, of this day.”

They know the secret expressed by the 19th Century poet Bulwer-Lytton:  “Patience is not passive; on the contrary, it is active.  It is concentrated strength.”  It’s the strength of regeneration, of inner construction, of preparation for the next outward swing of the creative force.

Patience waits with power and dignity, with poise and self-possession.  It understands the down strokes of life’s rhythms, its in-breaths.  Patience sinks into them with persevering calm and steadiness, humming a contented little song, for it knows the purpose of its waiting.  It goes about its tasks with an even temper, resting on the outer quiet of the phase.  It busies itself with observations as it waits, and indulges in diversions and play.  It likes the holiness of the moment’s hidden magic and feels the intensifying joy of hope and anticipation, asking, “What will this bring?  What will this bring?”  as the process flows toward birth and completion.

“Be patient toward all that is unsolved in your heart and try to love the questions themselves,” said Rainer Maria Rilke.  “Do not now seek the answers, which cannot be given you because you would not be able to live them.  And the point is to live everything.  Live the questions.”