I wrote this piece for my Advanced Composition class on their last day of the semester. They all had to do a final , one-page "small writing," and of course, they made me do one as well.
“Patience is waiting. Not passively waiting. That is laziness. But to keep going when the going is hard and slow - that is patience.”
Patience: A word I have never understood. I used to get so irate over the smallest things that my grandfather devised a nonverbal system to calm me down. He would hold up five fingers and goofily wave from afar as I let my impatience get the best of me. Each finger stood for a letter in S-M-I-L-E, and served as a reminder for me to calm down, and use that dreaded eight-letter word I so hated.
I always thought to have patience meant to be lazy and impassionate, while I was more into making things happen, being proactive, and hyperactively living from one zealous idea to the next. I used to resent people who were “too patient, too calm or too at peace” because I thought they must not care enough if they weren’t willing to get what they wanted now. Waiting an extra week, day, minute, or even second for something one cared about seemed absolutely absurd. To be patient meant to be boring, lackadaisical, and mundane—my biggest fear. I somehow thought that if I had everything first it meant I was the best, the one to be envied, the one with it all…
For example, I was one of the original metallic bag-owners in Staunton. After seeing them all over the streets of NYC I impatiently purchased the first one I could find on EBay, only to see them come to my small-town T.J. Maxx for half the price a few months later. When my husband and I began house hunting I was ready to jump into every cookie-cutter town house or fixer-upper that came our way. I didn’t care if it wasn’t the right fit because I wanted it NOW. I assumed if we cared enough, we would make it work. Luckily, I married a patient man and after ten months of waiting, we found our “dream home,” the white farmhouse with mountain views I had described in my journal years before.
Now, as we embark on our journey to find the “perfect puppy” I have had a few metaphorical slaps in the face from the hand my grandfather used to wave. I have wanted every lost, stray, or even store-bought puppy that has come our way since losing Shiner last March. There was the “sweet, old and hungry” black lab tied to a cart return at Ollie’s. Then, Sadie Mae, the little pup found in a ditch in Waynesboro that needed a home, and Samantha, the wire-haired pointer we tried to adopt from a fancy rescue agency, only to hear nothing back after weeks of thinking she was “the one.” Then there was Brownie, the graying chocolate lab at a Charlottesville SPCA, Jake, the adorable “bassador,” and finally, just this Saturday, we went to see the would-be service dog, we thought we’d call “Scout” for her helpful nature, who turned out to be far from it as she literally pooped at our feet. Fortunately, one of us had enough sense to turn away all those times, despite the countless strings pulling at my heart.
After digging around in another impatient frenzy, we found out about a litter of yellow Labrador puppies in a nearby town. We arranged to meet them on Sunday afternoon, and as we drove out, thinking of our past experiences, I knew better than to get my hopes up. We immediately learned that the momma dog had most likely bred with one of her past puppies, though it didn’t seem to have caused any problems so far. I was leery…but pleasantly surprised when I saw the smallest one in the litter look up at me with his two-week old, cracked squint. He was at least half the size of his brothers and sisters, and quite possibly inbred, but in my eyes, he was perfect.
I guess you could say the older I have gotten the more I have realized that some things are worth the wait.
Sometimes it’s not about being in control, being the best, or being perfect. When you take a second to calm down and use that dreaded eight-letter word, it allows you to see the perfection in the imperfect.
As you all embark on your many journeys of life, next time you want to strangle the seemingly incompetent checkout lady in Wal-mart, or jump at the first handbag, house, or puppy you see, remember me, hold up five fingers, and S-M-I-L-E.
