Tuesday, May 5, 2009
It's hard to wait
I've been wringing every last shred of patience and wisdom from my body. I'm down to a cellular level now, and supplies are running thin. I was such a trooper when my folks died, then when I had breast cancer, but I'm really running low on trooper juice. Maybe if I search the net I can find a supplier.
My intuition and experience tell me to wait, be patient, "change the things I can; accept the things I cannot change: and hope I have the wisdom to know the difference". One of my favorite books The Prophet, by Kahlil Gibran speaks of watching the seasons of our life and being content with grief and sadness, much like we would accept the snow on our fields.
Well, yada, yada, yada, blah, blah, blah today I just plain feel angry, tired, and discouraged. Life right now is NOT how we planned it. I would just go to bed, but I know that I'll wake up at some ungodly hour in a state of panic, drenched in sweat, and fighting those horrid demons that interrupt rest with needless worry and overactive brain stimuli. But that's why the sun rises each morning, isn't it? To bring yet another day filled with chance, risk, opportunity, and miracles. Ok, I'll take the risk.
Your pain is the breaking of the shell that encloses your understanding.
Even as the stone of the fruit must break, that its heart may stand in the sun, so must you know pain.
And could you keep your heart in wonder at the daily miracles of your life, your pain would not seem less wondrous than your joy;
And you would accept the seasons of your heart, even as you have always accepted the seasons that pass over your fields.
And you would watch with serenity through the winters of your grief.
Much of your pain is self-chosen.
It is the bitter potion by which the physician within you heals your sick self.
Therefore trust the physician, and drink his remedy in silence and tranquility:
For his hand, though heavy and hard, is guided by the tender hand of the Unseen,
And the cup he brings, though it burn your lips, has been fashioned of the clay which the Potter has moistened with His own sacred tears.