There are many who would say, Who cares? I guess that’s the difference between a philosopher and pragmatist; someone who loves to ponder the deeper questions or one who is more concerned with practical results.
While living in Codgerville next door to my sister on the family farm, she constantly told me, Have patience, Sherry!
Unfortunately, I’m not wired that way. I want what I want now. Or better still, yesterday. And yet, I am very good at waiting.
I suddenly felt the need to unpack the two words which seem to have similar meanings but different realities.
Patience is the act of submission to a construct . It is the capacity to tolerate delay without becoming angry. It is calm self-restraint. One’s ability to be patient is partially influenced by the genetics affecting brain function and temperament which provide a predisposition toward self-control. But one’s capacity for patience also depends heavily on life choices and experience. It is a learnable life skill.
For me, the path from thinking to doing is short and direct. If it’s doable, let’s do it and get it done. My sister, unlike me, inherited the patience genes.
Have patience, Sherry.
Oh, come on, let’s DO IT, Gwen!
It takes incredible energy, a serious act of the will for me to restrain from executing immediately on whatever it is I’ve decided to do.
On the other hand, I have perfected waiting.
To wait intentionally, you must be unafraid of time, unafraid of doing nothing. If you wait without expectation, without worrying about what comes next – if waiting is a meditation, a practice, a prayer, then waiting is the most important thing you will ever do. It becomes sacred idleness in which the purpose for your life unfolds effortlessly before you.
I wrote that paragraph as a poem in January, 2013. The rainy season had descended upon Bali early that year. Daily, a thunderous pounding deluge kept me inside the house I was renting at the time. Unlike the airy, light-filled home I built later, this one brooded. Surrounded by dense jungle, very little light entered. I escaped as often as possible to walk the streets of Ubud and park myself in coffee shops to write. During those dark monsoon months, a prisoner of the weather, I perfected the art of waiting.
Waiting, in its pure form, isn’t engaging in distractions. You don’t get to suddenly decide to bake bread, or put together a puzzle, or text a neighbor. I am distressed at how distracted the world has gotten. Nobody takes time to just wait. Nobody bothers to ask the deep questions and pause a while in silence for the answers. How do they know if they’re on the right path? If their life choices came from the wisdom within them or a trigger-response to outside influences?
It took me years to become unafraid of time. To ask the questions and listen for answers. But once I did, I finally understood what made me happy. I discovered who I was. I learned to live, not merely survive.
writing for self-discovery 
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