My amaryllis is blooming for a third time. It's coming out so sloooooowly. I was excited to see the third stem emerge from the bulb a few weeks ago--a small green pearl of promise. The plant, a gift from a friend before Christmas, had already given me two stems of trumpeting flowers. Over the course of two months I have been observing as each stem produced first one flower, then a second, then a third and finally a fourth so that all four were in full bloom simultaneously before wilting and dropping their petals.
The amaryllis sits in a white pot on the coffee table, topped with small pebbles and surrounded by branches of redwood. Every morning, as I descend the stairs to the family room to start the day, my eyes rest on the flower pot to check on its progress. For weeks, centimeter by centimeter, the stem has pushed upwards, reaching towards the sun. Yesterday, I cut back the second stem, its petals having drooped and fallen several days ago. I watered the plant for the first time in several weeks (mercifully, this plant needs very little water). The petals are enclosed in a green pocket, biding their sweet time until they are ready. This week, the pocket began to open. No matter how long I sit watching them, hoping to catch the actual moment of blooming, I cannot speed their progress.
I am impatient. This weekend I brought a knitting project to an abrupt close. I had started to knit an afghan two months ago--my first big project after several scarves and neck warmers--but at the rate I was knitting and purling I would not likely have completed it until June, long past the time when I could use it this winter season. Besides, I was constantly losing track of the pattern and the bigger it got the more noticeable that would be. So on this, the coldest weekend of the winter so far, I chose to cast off, and re-branded the project a "writing shawl". Mission accomplished.
My daughter, on the other hand, spent a good eight hours making cookies today: we shopped for icing and decorating supplies, then she measured and mixed the ingredients, chilled the dough for an hour (while I napped), rolled it and cut out two dozen shapes by hand using a hand-drawn template, mixed four colours of icing, and then baked, iced and decorated each one individually, turning down numerous offers of assistance from me and my husband. Each, "Here, let me help you," or "Hey, can I do some for you?" was met with an icy stare, narrowed eyes and a brusque "No, I'll do it myself." Eight hours.
Many people criticize young people for not being patient enough: "Kids these days, attention spans of zero, they only want something if it's convenient, they want things handed to them on a platter and don't know how to work for them, they can't focus...."
And then there's my children. Grace and her baking. Gabriel, at 14, waiting out a year before he can play contact sports again in order to avoid another head injury. Jacob, at 13, saving up $600 of allowance and gift money to buy himself an iPhone. They have their trying moments, as all kids do, but their level of patience and focus far exceeds mine and I poke fun at myself for not keeping up with them. But I also wonder, when--and how--did they become this capable of putting in the time to achieve their goals?
I like to think we can take responsibility for it--their successes confirmation of our stellar parenting skills--but I recognize in them the traits found in generations past: tenacity, creativity, steadfastness, spirit and patience. They are in constant motion, experiencing constant growth, even when I am not still enough to notice. I feel small in the face of their potential, inadequate in the face of their capacity, and curious about all that is yet to come for them. Observing them, as observing the amaryllis, allows me to practice patience. For days, weeks, months and years there were baby steps, imperceptible changes, seemingly endless nights, coupled with my longing for liberation.
(I am ashamed at my use of that word. What do I know of "liberation"? This week, South Africa celebrated the 26th anniversary of Nelson Mandela's release from prison, after an incarceration of 27 years. For a period of time longer than half my lifetime, that great man sat imprisoned in a tiny cell at the very ends of the earth, and emerged with both humility and vindication, his pride and sanity intact, to lead his country and inspire a generation (myself included) of people who hadn't even been born when he was first sentenced. And I dare to say I felt liberated when my children could tie their own shoes, take their own baths, make their own lunches, plan their own priorities.)
This week brought another example of the power of patience and perseverance: confirmation of gravitational waves in the universe. The calculations, complex; the implications, mind-boggling. According to one very clear explanation: "If you could see [gravitational waves], you can see back past where you can’t see with physical light. That would be cool. We’d have direct access to something that’s farther away than we can hope to see otherwise." (http://www.vox.com/2016/2/13/10981548/gravitational-waves-significance). It took one hundred years to determine, following Einstein's prediction in 1916. Perhaps the symmetry should not be surprising.
I, too, have had proof of their existence. I see and feel the vibrations of the universe every day. If only I stop to observe.
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