I wish I had the same patience with myself as I do with a block of wood.
I searched my woodpile for wood that could be made into a frame for my newest painting. First, I had to find enough length. I did. Two pieces that could be cut into four. Imperfections everywhere, but the length was there. So I began sanding. And sanding. Ending each day covered in dust, filled with the scent of possibility. I filled previous nail holes with putty. And sanded again. I will continue this process for days. I trust in it.
I asked my grandpa when I was about six or seven — (I calculate my age in the length of my steps compared to his) — “…but who tells you what to do?” We were walking back to his tractor in the field. I was always amazed that he could fix anything. The tractor. The mower. The combine. Whatever it was. He made the walk to the garage, or the barn, found the right tool and fixed it. I was fascinated. And it wasn’t just that. How did he know when to plant? Where? When to harvest? What to do every day? “I’ve made this walk before,” he said.
I’m not sure I understood the answer, but I knew enough to try to keep up.
I suppose nobody can really tell you how to make the journey. You have to put in the steps. Believe in them. Trust in your own length. It’s difficult for sure. But I see myself making the journey with a piece of wood. It’s just a small journey, I know, but it gives me patience. It offers me faith. And I take another walk, each time a little less afraid. A little more forgiving.
Somedays, it may feel like you are being asked to do the impossible. Be patient with yourself…kind. Believe. You’ve made this walk before.