Patience and water have parallel ebb and flow. That thought forms within my mental mists as I take my morning lakeside walk. The November rains have not arrived as they once would’ve reliably done. Lake levels are the lowest I’ve seen, in forty years of presence at their shores. This, mere months after a hundred-year flood took the water to extremes of excess. It’s hard not to let water become worry, as emotional and physical climates blend.
There are limits to the merger of water and worry, though. Watching the sky impatiently does not hasten delinquent rain. Squalls of anxiety do nothing to nurture thirsty soil. With each out breath, I release worry in favor of gratitude for all that’s better and true.
On stones that would be underwater, given a full lake, morning dew emerges with prismatic beauty, in concert with webs that could not be hosted there if rains had come. Limitless vistas open within their tiny details. I see that water persistently permeates everything, despite the absence of storms. Its forms are ethereal, patient and present. The drops are not waiting, just being. For this I’m deeply, quietly grateful.
Love persistently permeates too, merging with dew and gratitude. Love too has subtle forms, its own webs to coalesce on, its spirit ever emerging yet always present. In theory I’m alone here: the one I’d wish to share this morning’s beauty with is elsewhere, as the rain. Yet I do not miss her, because she is not missing. In the silence I hear her voice echo inside me, fresh from her morning call from Montana. It’s all I need. Her presence across a thousand miles and a cellular wave is enough to inspire my serenity; for within that silent echo I also hear sacred spirit. I see her and spirit too, in every eye of dew, each meeting my own eyes with the tender love greater spirit holds. It’s a love of awakening I feel, which transcends any boundary of personal soul. I don’t need to know what it means or where it leads, because its presence is pure as it is. No need to wait for completeness that’s already here. What love will emerge within us, between us, beyond us all? I need no answer because my devotion is without question.
I send my friend the morning dew, through the grace of a lens and electronic miracles. I marvel that I can instantly send dew to Montana; even more, that I can simply send it without knowing where she is, and trust she’ll be able to find it, whatever road she may travel, whenever she may look. For once, for a moment, our machines are a conduit of pure spirit.
As the dew travels yet vanishes, I remember the reminder that there’s no such thing as waiting patiently. You’re either patient, or you’re waiting. Waiting is an ache to be elsewhere; to have life different than it presently is. In presence and patience, waiting evaporates too in the rising sun. Patience expands my capacity to celebrate the morning as it is—true with dew and love, as they merge and emerge once more. In the eastern horizon’s pastel cloud wisps, there is spirit’s full presence. There is still no rain.