I was not blessed with
patience. I don’t know many who are. It isn’t that I am that eager about it,
enthusiasm only goes so far. Altering where we live can be scenic, but it isn’t
change. We take our baggage with us. We take our bodies and minds too. I need
infinite patience when negotiating my hall of interior delusional mirrors while
sneaking up on my thinking and introduce my thinking to the idea of changing
the way I see something. I seem to bog down on that game. That’s when some
voice deep inside urges me to wait just a minute, slow down, let me get my head
around this. I don’t seem to be aware that this is supposed to be negotiable,
might be it isn’t. Maybe, my lack of patience isn’t anything. Maybe, it’s just
another version of me wanting it to go my way, and my dislike for things not
going in that direction. Our behavioral grooves are formed over time. Some of
what we are is born into us. Patience is a con of a kind. Altering our seeing
things means we expand our experience of being alive. Fresh eyes, new skies….
“No need, got one right here.” The old
guy’s coffee pot was spouting a fierce jet of steam out of the door as his
stove put the heat to an old stainless percolator. The aroma spilled out into
the clear air. He came down the steps with the pot and two cups hooked onto two
of his fingers. Placing the cups down on the picnic table between the two
trucks, he poured out some coffee. It was thick, dark, strong black coffee of a
kind brewed by men with an appetite for things that had a punch to them.
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