The line at the grocery store snakes back past the cereal. It is 2021, the doors are open again, and there is one cashier where there used to be four. The man ahead of me taps his card against the cart handle, tap, tap, tap, and sighs loud enough for the whole line to hear. Somebody behind me mutters that nobody wants to work anymore. I watch all of this with a mix of compassion, amusement, and irritation towards the impatient ones. And honestly, the irritation gives me away, because a part of me is tapping too.
I know her well, my impatient one. A little general with a stopwatch, arms crossed, certain that if she pushes hard enough the line will move faster. “Come ON. How hard can this be?” Eleven minutes we have been standing here, and the cashier is doing the work of four.
Impatience is a common trait, especially in Western societies where discomfort is met with little tolerance. Years south of the border taught me something different: the bus comes when it comes, and the paperwork takes the afternoon it takes, however antsy my legs get. Between that and my Buddhist practice, I’ve learned the value of patience and accepting what cannot be changed. So in the long lines, I give my little general something else to do. I strike up brief conversations with the people around me, turn toward the agitation, the heat or the buzz of it, and get curious about it, or silently chant one of my favorite kirtans. Sometimes I look around the space and ask myself, “what is pleasing in this moment,” the art on the wall, the deep crow’s feet carved into a stranger’s face, the way a child lies on the floor because he is young and hasn’t learned to guard his face and constrain his body into a presentation self. It doesn’t take long until my irritation shifts into another moment of presence.
I ask myself,
what is pleasing in this moment?
Not long ago, a client sat across from me wanting her healing finished by the following Friday. The words came out of my mouth before I knew they were coming: “The coffee is not ready to drink until it is brewed.” We both laughed. Then we both sat with it.
Anyone who has stood over a stovetop percolator knows this. The water climbs the stem, sprays over the grounds, drips back down, and climbs again. The little glass knob on top goes from clear to deep amber, and the kitchen smells like coffee long before there is actually liquid to pour. Try pouring it early and you get hot brown water. There is no rushing the climb and the fall.
I see this same impatience in my work as a Spiritual Doula. On the spiritual journey, we initially focus on healing our own wounds, a somewhat self-centered pursuit. Even when we extend our focus to healing for the sake of loved ones affected by our past actions, there’s still a hint of self-interest, as their pain becomes our own. However, as we continue on the path, we discover that our healing ultimately leads to embodying Bodhisattva energy: the realization that we are called to pass on this healing to others who suffer.
And here my little general gets sneaky. She trades her stopwatch for a map. We often desire to see the path far ahead, wanting a clear sense of direction, every turn drawn in, the destination circled. Yet, the greater truth is that we only need to know the next step. Sometimes, we do not know it until the moment our foot lands. Part of the practice is trusting the universe’s organizing principle. Up the stem and through the grounds and back down again, round after round, long before anything is ready to pour. As the Buddhists say, “chop wood, carry water.” Keep percolating.
Proverbs and adages, like “The coffee is not ready to drink until it is brewed,” serve as reminders of fundamental wisdom. They help soothe our anxious minds and reconnect us with a softer relationship with reality. In Buddhist practice, similar sayings are used, such as “If you meet the Buddha on the road, kill him” (indicating that true wisdom resides within us, not some external guru). There is also the Polish proverb “not my circus, not my monkeys” (meaning we don’t have to take on others’ chaos).
In Spanish, we have dichos, little rhyming sayings our grandmothers hand us like a warm cup on a cool autumn day. My favorite for the long line and the long path both: “No hay mal que dure cien años.” There is no bad thing that lasts a hundred years. The line moves, eventually, one footfall at a time. You can draw from existing adages or even craft your own, tailored to your specific circumstances.
There is nothing bad that lasts 100 years.
Integrating these adages into our mindfulness routines proves invaluable when we recognize any part of ourselves trying to dominate. Much like how I recently coined “The coffee is not ready to drink until it is brewed” during a session with one of my clients.
Eventually, the man with the card has moved on. And my little general has uncrossed her arms. Well, mostly. But that’s why we call it a practice, not a perfect.
May you let the coffee brew.
May you practice well.
May your own little generals relax and enjoy the coffee.