LOVE IS PATIENT

Sometimes, I’m amazing at being patient. I’m practically a saint! My inner voice says. I mean, in these days, to be as patient as you are, that really means something.  And I have come a long way.  I was relieved when maturity mellowed me out, refined my rough edges and turned me into a much more patient person.  But I should also point out that Ken is still more of a patient person than I am, THANKGOD for that, or else we would have a real firestorm on our hands. More of a firestorm than we have now, and what we have now is a good manageable amount.

I’ve had a lot of cringe-worthy realizations lately;  I’m in that kind of heap right now where you spot old and unwelcome habits creeping back in. But, but but…. I have so many reasons, justifications, for why I’m hurried, exasperated, tense.  Maybe if he was a little more considerate, maybe if I had this and this job, maybe if I had more time, maybe if this stupid winter was over….But really, do I want my strong character to grow based on only good circumstances? What a poor construction that would be, how useless it would be in the face of a storm.

Because other times, I am horrible at being patient. I dislike this about myself greatly, and can’t help but wince when I hear that tone in my voice that is so grating and unfriendly. I work so hard on my tone, because the way that someone speaks to you, it matters, a whole lot.

And if you do some thinking, you realize that the opposite of patience can so loudly communicate annoyance, disdain, pride, scorn...hatred? It's a slippery slope. 

So I’m self-administering the medicine of luxuriating. 

The luxury of language. Of choices.  The luxury of scooping a well-ripened avocado out with a spoon to eat, of quiet, of a car to drive, of layers of clothing. The luxury of a warm body next to me in bed at night. The luxury of endless hugs, of a new morning. The luxury of forgiveness.

The luxury of watching my husband wash my baby's hair in the sink.