Crafts and Glasses

I have an astigmatism that went undiagnosed until I was 11. A wrinkle in my cornea that made music notes blur together, tennis balls completely move in my peripheral, and made reading an insufferable chore. My mom, who taught me to read, was pretty convinced that I was just impatient. I would assume that if a word started with a “th” that is was “There” or “Then” when it could be something completely different. My eyes had just caught the start of the word and moved on down the sentence. She was always telling me to go back, slow down, and read it again. My brain was doing its best to compensate for my jumping eyes based on context of the rest of the sentence. I have glasses now so my eyes hold still most of the time.

My mother was right to suspect me of being impatient. Doing just about everything quickly has been my way for quite some time. When we were little, our school was work at your own pace. And I had a pretty fast pace. Such a fast pace that when I finished my work early, my teacher would give me crafts to do. I hate crafts. Always have. I reached my limit of making potholders out of Popsicle sticks by November. I asked for a watch for my seventh birthday. And although I was not very good at telling time, I would do a page of work, wait five minutes, and do another page. Thus ending my craft time torture. My teacher told me that patience is a virtue. I think that phrase is just a stall tactic for the slow. And when I find the person that coined that phrase, I will punch him in the face. Patience is a pain in the ass.

I recently had one of the most ridiculous break-up of my life. Four and a half hours to settle our two-month relationship. When it was all said and done, nothing was actually done, just said. And talk is pretty cheap. It's the actions of love that make the world go round. While in the relationship, I was consistently confronted with my own nonsense. Particularly, with my impatience. I did try not to let my past relationships color this one. I gave a valiant effort. Most of the time, I was terribly unsuccessful. Assuming I knew what this sentence was because I have read a few other books. Thank God that I have great friends and a great family that would tell me to go back, slow down, and read it again. It was easy for my mind to jump past the issues at hand and draw conclusions based on my well-honed skills of hopelessness. Polished and not so pretty, I fight them daily.

I think what makes patience difficult for me is the same thing that makes hope difficult. There are no guarantees on the other side of those journeys. There is however, certainty in failing to attempt. A life of simply existing, never being fully lived. But what also makes it challenging is the lack of results from past attempts. There are only so many times that you can suck it up, dust yourself off, and say, “Nothing ventured, nothing gained.” At some point, it becomes far too easy to say, “Nothing ventured, nothing ventured.” And if there is a shred of futility in an action, you bet your grandma I can find it. And usually blow it entirely out of proportion.

I have often heard the proverb quoted, “Hope differed makes the heart grow sick.” Usually when people are justifying the reasons they are no longer trying. And it is true. Not seeing anything come or at least not seeing enough come from your efforts is disheartening at best and soul sucking at worst. And it can cause you to either be a pessimist or an existimist. New word. Someone who is not assuming the worst, but rather assumes nothing. A life, who’s routine is its substance. An outlook that has an inevitable end in implosion. I don’t just look at the world or others with suspicion or assumption of their failure. I look at myself that way. And their failure inevitably emotionally registers as something fundamentally lacking in me. Because if I was worth it, they would behave differently. If I was better or more or substantial enough, my circumstances would reflect it and more things would go my way. Which is absolute bullshit. And drawing such hard lines in some sort of cause and effect manner is adolescent. The world is much more complicated than that. And people are even more complicated.

So…what’s the point? Good question. This is a super rambly post. I guess the point is that no one bothers to quote the rest of that verse. “Hope differed makes the heart grow sick, but a longing fulfilled is a tree of life.” I think I need to keep believing that I will find that tree of life. Hell, I should just make one. I think I need to put my watch away and make some damn crafts. Do some things I would rather not do to make the world around me a little more colorful. And when I am sure I know the end of the story, I should put on my glasses, slow down, and read the sentence again. I may never find the virtue in patience, but I know the disdain of hopelessness. And that’s no fun for anyone.