Patience. I want to sit with that word for a second. Not rush into defining it or dressing it up. Just let it breathe on the page the way I’ve had to let it breathe in my life this month. Patience. It’s not my favorite virtue, and yet it’s the one I keep getting handed. Like an unwanted gift that turns out to be exactly what you needed, even if it didn’t come wrapped in joy or ease or immediacy. Not dramatically. But definitely. What is Patience, anyway?
The word comes from the Latin patiēntia, meaning “the quality of suffering”—which makes it make a lot more sense, actually. Patience isn’t waiting quietly with a smile on your face. It’s enduring. It’s staying when you want to leave. It’s breathing when everything tightens.It’s loving something, or someone, or yourself…even when you don’t have the proof yet that it’ll all be okay. There’s a quote I found that resonated with me:
“Patience is not the ability to wait, but the ability to keep a good attitude while waiting.”—Joyce Meyer
However, I’d like to push that a little further. Because sometimes a “good attitude” is just not lashing out. I didn’t give up. I let it hurt and didn’t make it worse. That counts too.
This month, I have been sitting with uncertainty. Big things. Personal shifts. And maybe most meaningfully, I embraced my genderqueerness more boldly than ever before. People I miss.Conversations unfinished. Doors that wouldn’t open, no matter how I knocked.
And you know what? I didn’t kick them down this time. I sat. I sat with the silence and the non-answer. I chose slowness even when I wanted to sprint. I let space exist between me and resolution.
I told myself: “Let it unfold. You don’t need to hold the ending yet.” And that wasn’t always peaceful. But it was patient. I think that counts too. Patience isn’t passive. It’s trust wearing sweatpants. It’s saying, “I still believe in the garden, even when all I see is dirt.” It’s choosing not to scream at the seed.
Poem of the Month
by me
How to Be Patient
Step one: sit with the ache.
don’t ice it.
don’t explain it.
let it be sore, let it breathe.
even if it bruises your pride.
Step two: stop refreshing the page.
the message will come when it comes.
the moment will move when it’s ready.
no amount of checking will make the clock hurry.
Step three: whisper kindness to yourself.
not promises. not platitudes. just
“I’m still here.”
“I’m still learning.”
“I’m still worth it.”
Step four: let life take the long way.
the shortcut never sees the view.
and you are here to witness
not just to arrive.
Story of the Month
by me
The Waiting Place
There was once a boy who was always rushing ahead, certain that life was hiding something better just around the corner. One day, he met an old woman sitting beside a still pond. She told him this was the Waiting Place.
“How do I get out?” he asked.
“You don’t,” she said. “Not until you learn to love the pause.”
He sat beside her, angry and aching and anxious, but she didn’t say another word. Just smiled softly, her hands in her lap like she had all the time in the world.
Eventually, he stopped asking.
Eventually, he started listening.
Eventually, the wind changed, the water moved, and he stood—lighter, slower. somewhere wiser.
He turned to thank her, but she was gone. Only her seat remained, still warm.
Im heading into August with the same warmth in my chest. I don’t have all the answers, but I’m staying close to the quiet. Close to the process. Close to myself. Patience isn’t easy, but it’s powerful. And I’m practicing it like a spell.
See you next month.
—Lj
What I’m Currently Working on
These days, my schedule feels like a careful balancing act as I shift from teaching to focusing on writing and refining my craft. I returned to Texas around June 20th, having completed my year of service in New Jersey. I’m no longer tutoring, as that was part of my program at the time. With middle school testing behind me, I find myself eagerly awaiting the start of my graduate school classes at UNT on August 18th. This past year has been quite transformative, and I’m excited to share my plans and the progress I’ve made during this time. To stay updated on my journey and what I’ll be working on next, feel free to visit the Works in Progress Page or follow the Facebook Page, where I share daily updates and fun tidbits.
This month’s blog will likely be similar in many ways to last month’s blog post on growing/moving on as the themes of growing/moving on and loss & celebration are alike in many ways. As many of you know, at least if you follow the site’s Facebook page, This month has been a crazy one as not only did I just arrive in my temporary home for a year in New Jersey to start a new venture with The Go Foundation, but I also lost my sweet Hazel dog of sixteen years before leaving.July was an emotionally crazy time, to say the least. Starting the month celebrating the 4th of July, seeing family not often see, getting hyped for the trip, for the move, then getting struck by guilt and loss at the last second.
July is often full of celebration due to the 4th, and it is the height of true summer, causing many nations and lots of happiness. We may forget that the very celebration of the 4th is ridden with loss. America fought and won the fight for its independence, but that didn’t come without mountains of loss. The decision to go to war and battle for this right did not come easy; often, any measure of loss comes with that type of heaviness. Taking Hazel to the vet and ultimately coming to the decision to help her pass was no different. Selfishly and unfortunately, I believe I was holding back the process to leave it to be dealt with after I left for New Jersey. Fortunately, I came to my senses and knew I needed to see her through, not just for her but for me, too.
Most often, this is how loss is dealt with because no one wants to deal with it and confront it head-on, hence why these types of decisions commonly do not come easy, no matter how big or small perceived. Hazel, even through her discomfort, pain, and need for release, with her big ol heart, regardless of how unsteady it was to find out, knew I needed her to show me how strong to be in times of loss and change. Though naturally shy, nervous, and timid, she welcomed that vet staff and her passing as the best thing ever; the staff was her family, and she was so strong, bold, and happy the whole time. So, although I did cry that day, those tears, as heavy as they were, were sobs of celebration.
Hazel lived sixteen beautiful years with me and my family; she outlasted many furry companions and helped love on many new generations that came during her life. Her life was one to be celebrated, not regretted and feared, and I am so glad that I made the tough decision to be with her for that moment, as we both knew it was coming. I just needed time to truly process that and not hide and try to run away from it. My only regret on the matter is how long I took to come to that decision and how close I made it to my time of leaving, making it even harder than it was already going to be leaving my one remaining dog, Duke, who has always had both Hazel and me and within the span of two weeks he presently has neither. As Hazel taught me in her last moments in the difficult times, we need to show strength, especially for and to those we love. My time here in New Jersey is only short and I have a big, supportive, loving family, so Duke will be just fine. In case you missed it on Facebook, here is my poem in honor of my sweet Hazel Bazel:
As I type this blog post on loss & celebration and do so greatly needing a reminder of sweet Hazel’s lesson of strength in difficult times as I am going through it today. These types of days were and are expected during this big adjustment during this year in New Jersey, but awareness does not make things less hard; it just makes it easier. So I write on the loss and the celebration of Hazel because I need to for myself, and I know that. Maybe Hazel’s lesson will touch someone else as they read it, and they needed to be taught this as well, but regardless, loss is hard, but that is why we celebrate. Whether the loss you are going through is personal, global, partnered with grief, or the loss of comfortability due to change, know that your feelings are valid, warranted, and, most importantly, need to be coupled with celebration. Loss, when followed up by celebration, ultimately results in inner peace and trauma passion; this is why we have holiday celebrations such as the 4th of July, but caution yourself not to forget or discredit the small things too, like in my circumstance for instance; I am struggling today because of the newness of moving to New Jersey from Texas without my dogs and far from family, but I am fortunate for my loving and supportive family and for this great opportunity and venture post-graduation that I prayed for and that is worth celebrating!.
What I’m Currently Working on
As you can guess, after reading the above blog, I have just moved to NJ, and my year of service as a fellow with the GoFoundation has begun. I am also busy submitting my poems and short stories anywhere and everywhere. As always, to follow my progression or what I am doing, you can head over to the Works in Progress Page or follow the Facebook Page where I post updates and share fun tidbits daily.
Author Recommendation
This month, to continue the memory of Hazel even more, I share one of the short stories that I wrote a few years ago in preparation for the inevitable day that ultimately arrived earlier this month. It is heavily influenced by my life and inspired completely by Hazel’s story completely:
The Other Puppy
This was not supposed to be my life. I was the other puppy. The brown puppy. My brother, the black one. He was chosen. My Boy often likes telling this story. Mom went out searching for a new friend for him. She met me and my brother in one of those parks for cars. I was scared I didn’t know what was going on. My brother was excited, though, greeting each new person like his new best friend. I was apprehensive, unsure, and shy. Mom was immediately comforting to me. She paid attention to both of us, but she lingered on me.
I thought I didn’t like the attention at first, but then suddenly, I was disappointed when she stopped massaging my ears. Rubbing between her thumbs and index fingers like a soothing pinch. I enjoyed it and wanted her to begin it again, but she scooted back from us, smiled, and then there was a flash. I put my head down, attempting to shield my eyes. My brother looked directly at the fleeting light sticking his tongue out. I later learned that was Mom taking a picture of the two of us to send to My Boy. She asked me which one I wanted, and I said The Black One, My Boy would say and then begin to chuckle as he continued. Then Mom said too late, I got The Other One. That’s me. The Other One. The Other Puppy.
I am unsure why My Boy refers to this as one of his favorite stories. The first time I heard him tell it, I had nightmares for nights after of him taking me back to exchange for my brother. When Mom picked me up in her welcoming yet cautious arms loading me inside her car, carefully driving out of its park, I had my suspicions. It took me time to accept and get used to my new home.
My new home meaning My Boy. He is perfect. Caring. Compassionate. My voice. My champion. My Boy. Any doubt is replaced with love in his presence; which I have been around for thirteen years. Of course, that’s not to say the doubt never crept in. It was in my nature to worry. My Boy, my home, just made it easier to cope with. Through the numerous changes: inside dog to outside dog, new dogs, new people, new places, even as I became weaker and all my brown brindled fur turned to grey, My Boy always showed me love.
As my teeth began to pour out like rain and my sight went as foggy as a druggie’s brain. He would tell me how beautiful I was and how lucky he was to have me. It was nice to hear and much needed because I am so naturally The Other Puppy or other anything. I don’t call for much attention, not like most dogs. Its always been easy for me to fall back and take a secondary role. What’s that saying, ‘never the bride, always the bridesmaid.’ That’s how I felt most of the time. Wait my turn until the needier was taken care of, and let me tell you, I have had some needy roommates. Dumb, goofy, loud, obnoxious, and full of themselves.
My Boy loves dogs more than he loves himself sometimes. My Boy is like me in that way. Anxiety, depression, and lack of self-worth are all ways that we could be described as. In fact, some may define us by those words. That’s okay. We know we are more. Sometimes it takes the other to remind us of that, but we do. We rely on each other. Have all these years. A kiss. A nudge. A snuggle here or there delivered at the right time could mean the world. Some days it has literally meant life or death for My Boy. When I was still an outside dog, just on the brink of becoming an old dog, My Boy tried to take his own life. I heard Mom say he was tired of worrying and being afraid. He would have rather sank into his daydreams than live life knowing he wouldn’t achieve them. I understood that.
That’s when I realized My Boy was an other like me. That was why we clicked. That is why Mom brought him me instead of my brother. We needed each other. I made it my mission to become an inside dog again once he returned home. I knew I could be what he always was for me. A blanket of love and worth. And now I knew just how important a job that was.
That’s why my current situation kills me. Lying on this doctor’s bed that reeked of all different kinds of dogs, looking into My Boys tear-filled eyes. He was keeping the tears in because he didn’t want to cry in front of the doctor, but I knew once he left to prepare for my final nap, My Boy would cry with the power of a tsunami. This moment had been coming for a long while, and we both knew it. Still, that didn’t make it any easier.
I had to be strong and confident for him. Four years as an inside dog since My Boy’s forced brush with death and two inside his little home all to ourselves. Just me, My Boy, and Good Boy. An ironic name for my newest roommate. I often think My Boy calls him by this as an incentive and not because he is, in fact, a good boy. When My Boy brought that dog home, it was clear he was a bonified bad dog. My Boy has put much time into Good Boy these two years. I also followed suit, especially since sensing my time was nearing.
I taught Good Boy everything I knew about My Boy. I tried to explain how My Boy and I are others and would always take a step back for those who needed more attention, like himself. I warned him that although he would never show it or admit it directly, My Boy needed assurance and recognition that he was valued and loved. I told him again and again how much My Boy needed reassurance, and that soon, he’d be the only one here to take care of My Boy. I was never sure if Good Boy was truly listening or grasping any of what I told him. It worried me desperately in these last couple of days if I would be leaving my wonderfully precious Boy, who though now was a man, would always be My Boy, without a dog who truly understood him and knew what he needed. Today as My Boy carried me through the house Good Boy gave me a look that told me he did understand after all. The big blonde dog with his usually perked-up ears now drooping and cocked let out a small whimper as I was walked out of the house to take my final car ride.
Back in the little room, the doctor left us in just like I predicted My Boy lost himself in grief, bursting into a fit of tears. I mustered up the little strength I still possessed, edged myself to the end of the tall, smelly doctor bed, and nudged my dry brown nose forward, meeting the temple of My Boy’s head, ruffling some of his autumn-colored hair.
He looked up from the defeated position he had taken with his face buried in the palm of his trembling hands, crouched forward on the bench near the bed. Our eyes met, and I knew he felt what I did — The love- — The time and life spent together — The endless appreciation. He stopped crying, as a tender smile replaced his look of dread as his leafy green eyes lovingly locked with my muddy brown ones. I heard the doctor renter and saw My Boy give a slight nod toward him before suddenly wrapping around my neck in a warm embrace that felt like a fireplace on a cold winter night.
“My sweet, sweet girl. Thank you. Thank you so much.” My Boy sniffled in my good ear while he messaged the other like Mom used to. I felt a pinch but ignored it as the moment felt too good. My Boy put his nose to mine and everything else disappeared from thought— the smell, the pain, the fear.
” I can’t imagine if Mom had brought that other puppy to me instead. You were exactly what I needed.” I drifted off with those words looking into My Boys loving eyes.
JustLj.com 