An Ever-Flowing Stream

I’ve been meaning to write a blogpost about patience, but I’ve had trouble taking the time for it.

I spent an hour this morning in a medical office waiting room for my turn to bleed into a vial — routine lab work. I arrived fairly early, having fasted so all the tests would work. The room was already crowded. I had a good book with me by a new Irish writer, but I kept getting distracted by the other folks in waiting.

Lately I’ve been trying to push back against that automatic pigeon-holing of humans that I’ve developed over the last 60 years or so. It’s a handy skill — avoids having constantly to evaluate everyone around you to figure out who might be interesting, boring, dangerous, better than you, worse than you, etc. You know, the snap judgments we all make in what doubtless developed as a helpful human coping skill when quick survival decisions were essential. But it seems the skill is overactive, maybe even hard-wired.

If I have the patience to slow down and observe at something slightly deeper than a ten-second scan across a room, I might just notice some interesting humans around me. At times people-watching is even more entertaining than a good poet, if you’re patient enough for it. Of course, you have to be somewhat subtle; people notice unkindly if you stare at them too long. Slightly surreptitious observation, though, can offer some fascinating insights.

In the waiting room was a twenty-something young woman in a wheelchair with significant mobility and speech challenges. An older woman was sitting with her, her mother I presumed. They were dressed similarly in a bright color, but not exactly alike. I’m ashamed to admit that my initial ten-second scan of the room led to feeling slight pity for the mom and then thinking, selfishly, that they would probably slow the schedule down.

Once I sat down, I gave daughter and mother another look, which led to feeling some guilt for my snap judgment. Fortunately, I was sitting behind them and to the side, so that I could observe without appearing to stare. I pondered how the older woman might feel about her constant care-giving responsibilities. Likely she had invested the majority of her adult life in providing for her daughter. I imagined all the energy required just to keep one other person’s fragile life as safe and healthy as possible. Pity gave way to a bit of sympathy. The mom may not have been able to pursue a career, much less hold a full-time job. Perhaps no chance to make her mark on the world. I felt guilty about being glad my life was not like hers.

Then I noticed the mom gently reach a hand toward her daughter, and with one steady finger shape a lock of hair into a lovely curl. And the mom’s face beamed with deep joy and adoration. I could even imagine her thanking God for the great privilege of caring for her precious daughter, whom she probably loved more than life itself. I couldn’t see the young woman’s face, but I could imagine the depths of love she poured out toward her mom.

Patience. I know nothing of patience, but some people do, like that daughter and mom. And evidently I’ve also got a lot to learn about real life and real love.

* Photograph courtesy of Hush Naidoo Jade Photography at Unsplash.