Lately, I’ve been gestating a wish, a desire, an aspiration.
I don’t normally “gestate” things. I never had the patience required to endure (let alone nurture) the slow and gradual process of conception with its attendant indignities and transformations (indignities and transformations required to prepare for the physical, emotional and existential demands of parenting a newborn possibility).
My style was to give birth Zeus-as-with-Athena style: extruding a reality fully-formed in the shortest time possible from its inception in my head.
Needless to say, this approach has been a double-edged sword, responsible, on the one hand, for the almost brutal efficacy with which I’ve achieved results in life, but also answerable, on the other hand, for the collateral damage that always accompanies any kind of brutal efficacy.
The point is: my impatience is the source of most of my achievements—and also the source of the staggering amount of heartache I’ve inflicted on others (as well as on myself). Speed is often needed for contemporary forms of accomplishment, but it needs, in its turn, a most insidious species of callous disregard.
I don’t want to wake up ten years from now only to find nothing but wreckage in my wake.
So even if it goes against the grain, even if it’s one more thing I have YET to learn (with all the suffering that learning entails), I will gestate my wish, my desire and my aspiration.
I will wait, and I will endure the waiting, and I will forge patience out of the shards of my impatience.
And I will trust that out of all this will be born a most beautiful possibility—and that I will give birth to myself as a worthy parent of that long-awaited child.