…my own shall come to me.
I’d probably wait it out…
You may think that is a waste of precious time, that such a gift of an extra hour should be used more productively.
Perhaps you are right…
A large portion of my life has been about waiting.
Different kinds of waiting.
I have experienced so many myriad forms of waiting since I was a child (even the preamble to my birth and the birth itself was all about waiting) that I could almost call myself a connoisseur of wait, an expert, but I dare not do such a thing as doing so (out loud) may cause someone witnessing the act to get rather flustered, impatient with me, hot around the collar, their neck reddened with indignation and swollen by all the words trapped within which are building in pressure, ready to spew like a volcanic eruption.
I’m not a patient person, in spite of all my practice at waiting.
Some people would argue with me about that assessment of myself. Looks can be deceiving, so can assessments of self and other. Some people have remarked upon how patient I am, considering their remark to be a compliment of a flaw. I’m uncertain if it is a compliment, and my flaw would be impatience rather than patience.
I have little patience and a lot of impatience when it comes to those who spew their volcanic vent in my direction. However I will wait them out, wait their temper out, wait for it to subside, for them to run out of steam until there are only tiny puffs of smoke puttering out of their mouths.
Waiting, that’s what I do… best.
Even though it is not something which I feel that I was born to do. It is not an innate ability, it was acquired out of necessity… the necessity of waiting and what to do with such a thing.
Even though it is not considered productive, and is often viewed as a waste of time. By myself. By others.
When I am faced with a particularly frustrating wait, when impatience nibbles at my ear whispering words of haste which, I know from experience, the experience accrued by making hasty mistakes, are unwise… I remind myself of a poem I once read which I have never forgotten.
Serene, I fold my hands and wait,
Nor care for wind, nor tide, nor sea;
I rave no more ‘gainst time or fate,
For lo! my own shall come to me.
I stay my haste, I make delays,
For what avails this eager pace?
I stand amid the eternal ways,
And what is mine shall know my face.
Asleep, awake, by night or day,
The friends I seek are seeking me;
No wind can drive my bark astray,
Nor change the tide of destiny.
What matter if I stand alone?
I wait with joy the coming years;
My heart shall reap where it hath sown,
And garner up its fruit of tears.
The waters know their own and draw
The brook that springs in yonder height;
So flows the good with equal law
Unto the soul of pure delight.
The stars come nightly to the sky;
The tidal wave unto the sea;
Nor time, nor space, nor deep, nor high,
Can keep my own away from me.
– Waiting by John Burroughs