Patience.

Moments ago, I spit forth a stream of vile obscenities that would have made any Navy SEAL turn his head with a giddy eye twinkle thinking he was amidst one of his own. The victim of my ire? A bi-fold door. A bi-fold door that I have fixed four previous times because it is continually assaulted by a marauding 9-month old German Shepherd. Why didn’t I yell at the puppy? Because I have infinite patience with animals and children. Inanimate objects? Not so much.

Whenever I hear someone described as incredibly patient, I think, ‘You just haven’t found their deal yet.’ Everybody has his or her deal. No one is intrinsically patient or impatient; we all have limitations. I am honored that many people describe me as calm, tolerant, and understanding; those are nice words, and for the most part, they are representative of my demeanor. Being perceived as benevolent and possessing risibility are qualities for which I have worked. With that said, within a day, a dozen different imbroglios can cause me to behave like an ogre on PCP. And, the events that may cause me to react in that manner are entirely different than what makes another person crazed. I can have someone tell me that they wrecked my car… “Okay. I never liked it much anyway. Are you all right?” or they ate the last of the cheese… “Odd choice considering my addiction, but that’s fine. There’s more cheese in the world. Please go get some.” But then, I can try fervently to fit a square peg into a round hole and go completely batshit… “That’s it! Where’s a fucking flame thrower!?!” Obviously, I’m no Job. Or Micah. Or Ayyūb. I’m actually kind of a wank in many situations.

Patience is not about being good-natured so much as it is about pacing. When one mimics the pace of another, they exhibit patience. When I am with children, I go along with their pace and, if need be, strategically alter their pace and direction to meet the needs of the situation. I do not yell and scream; I am firm yet casual in my requests and make them appear interesting to the child, as opposed to an authoritative demand. And with animals? I play Alpha Dog; I am not intimidated by their behavior because I have enough experience to understand their aggression, fear, and games. I can tell within seconds if a dog is a poseur or freaking cuckoo. If, indeed, the dog is the latter, I tend to back away slowly. Of the many dogs I have encountered, I would guess only about 2-5% are mentally off; the rest are looking for guidance, praise, and limits.

Much to my dismay, I have never been able to match the pace of the elderly. By elderly, I do not mean the spry chatterbox neighbor who sports a kicky scarf and recently signed up for kitesurfing classes; I mean the skin on bones, barely moving, needs to have the heat set at 85 degrees and the television volume at the highest decibel level old person. The grandfather of a friend of mine was an extremely interesting man. Minimally educated, he eventually rose to the position of Minnesota State Senator. He had been a logger and worked his way up to serving on the University of Minnesota, Board of Regents, eventually having a campus building named after him. Of Norwegian blood, he was taciturn and industrious, and also equitable, honorable, and clever. He met many U.S. Presidents through his life and was well-respected by all. When he passed away, the now deceased U.S. Senator Paul Wellstone called the family to offer his condolences. The man had an incredible life. Yet, while visiting him, he would tell stories so slowly that I nearly combusted. “In 1939… a gentleman named………… Tom……. Stanley… no… Sherman… um… Sherman Thomas from…. Polk County… near Grand Forks…” The pauses were so lengthy, I wondered aloud to my friend, “Did he just die? Is he still breathing? Check his pulse.” She shushed me with a crinkled brow and eventually her grandfather would resume his story. In truth, I would have loved to have read a book about his life. I would have loved to have a conversation with him had he been twenty years younger. I couldn’t change my pace to match his and became impatient. I became restless and a little petulant. Numerous times I tossed on my coat and escaped into the cold for a cigarette, mumbling, “I could be out here for an hour, what would I miss? Nothing. Same sentence. ‘Grand Forks… north of Fargo... Tom… no, um, Sherman…’” I would spin in growly circles, stretch my neck, and tetchily jump in place before returning inside.

Not too long ago, I had to exhibit patience in a number of regards. I was awaiting test results, diagnoses, outlooks, expectancies, all kinds of things that, if I had gotten shit-faced or cried incessantly or found myself in a straight jacket, most folks would have said, “Well, can’t really blame her considering the circumstances.” I would have blamed me, though. I would have felt as if my emotional growth had reverted, that my earned skill of self-solace was fraudulent, and that my perspective was skewed, being reactionary before knowing reality. Some friends were worrisome, thinking that I was in denial. They were incorrect. One does not have to be consumed with the possibilities; one need only be aware. One need not rehearse outcomes; there will be plenty of time for jubilance or sorrow or nothing. My closest friend, Lara, knows this. She and I have had frank discussions, but she never pushes me. We have synchronicity, pacing and spacing, comfort and contentment, the deep desire to assure the other is happy and her needs are met without being overbearing. We have that amazing flow, never needing the other to perform or please or pity, knowing the other doesn’t need continual attention and fawning. We have patience with one another, whether I am incapacitated and need much sleep or she is having blood sugar issues and needs nourishment. I can be stupid and sick; she can be surly and agitated. We know what’s going on. However, while playing a raucous game of CatchPhrase, I must admit, I may have exhibited a bit less patience. But, no root beer references, and there were many, were making her get the “frosty mug” answer. With veins popping blue on my forehead, I tried the snowman aspect. She twisted her face, raised her eyebrow, clueless. Clenching my shirt in an attempt to rip my aorta from my chest and end my anguish, I shrieked, “THE MOST FAMOUS FUCKING SNOWMAN!!!” It wasn’t my finest moment, but anyone with a competitive board game spirit would surely understand. It’s part of my deal.

I will continue to attempt to broaden my patience. It is not that I desire to achieve any of the Seven Heavenly Virtues; I don’t give a hoo-hay in that regard. I do, however, believe that other beings deserve respect, and when I exhibit tolerance and longanimity, I like to think that I added civility sprinkle onto my surroundings. Until I improve, someone else can handle storytelling by senior citizens. I’ll be in the other room listening to a toddler tell the same knock-knock joke for a few hours.

Words.

A friend of mine suggested I blog about words. Wow. It’s really hard. It is a much more difficult task than one would think. How do I write about my truest love? As smarmy and French as it sounds, words are my raison d’être; writing them on paper is my passion; morphemes are my motivation to continue breathing. The method in which language evolves, the cultural implications, the global impact of hybridism, are all incredibly fascinating to me. Metalinguistics, semantics, syntax, phonetics, phonology--- I’m getting a bit aroused. I’ll be the first to admit that I am a word wonk, through and through. "And then, just to show them, I'll sail to Ka-Troo And Bring Back an It-Kutch a Preep and a Proo A Nerkle a Nerd and a Seersucker, too!" Theodore Geisel makes me hot.

I study idiolects, even my own. Those phrases and words frequent in speech, punctuating normal conversations, are curious. They are exceedingly expressive, but we have to listen closely--- to the manner in which the speaker stresses this word or that one, to the pauses between certain sentences, to the speaker’s choice to enunciate syllables or slur through them--- everyone creates jargon within vernacular within dialect within language. The nuances of verbalism shine like neon; a high-spirited conversation is a photograph of city light trails with my ears set at a slow shutter speed to catch all fractions. Words… miraculous. Contrarily, physical expression is not instinctive to me; I’ve known this since I was a child. While others may touch a forearm during conversation, place a palm on a shoulder when walking through a doorway, slap a knee during raucous laughter, I sit stunned in instantaneous analysis:

‘Why did that person touch me? Does she do that with everyone?’
‘Is he being polite or is he being weird?’
‘Is this touching thing what normal people do? Am I socially inept or is she particularly friendly?’
‘Is this necessary? Can’t he just make his face move and use his words to exhibit emotion?’

It’s not as if I cringe or flinch or run away screaming. I don’t have aphephobia, the origin stemming from the Greek roots meaning “touch” and “ACK!” And, it’s not as if I don’t like it; I enjoy when my friends are affectionate. It is just not my chosen form of expression. I like words. It’s similar to learning methods: some learn best by reading and then applying, others by listening, others by doing. None of them is wrong or inferior, just different. While a friend may reach for my hand to share an intimate moment, I’m more inclined to say something such as, “I like you more than toast,” or, “This hour right here, one of my favorites of all of my hours,” or, with rarity, “I love you, my friend,” which is said with pureness and without pretense.

Whenever someone has a passion for something, as I do for words, it has the capability to cause conflict with other aspects of life. Relationships with humans come to mind. Most have referred to my writing as “my mistress,” which I do not like. It sounds tawdry. It’s disrespectful. Words are not gimcrackery. Writing is not a cheap whore gussied up with fallal and gewgaw, all for me to have it off. I consider words… the writing of words… words… my inamorata. And, the reason I choose the feminine rather than masculine version, inamorato, is because I have always thought words inherently female and numbers intrinsically male. Obviously, it is devoid of truth and has a stereotype stank to it, but that’s how I have approached my studies, whether literature or trigonometry. Whatever. We all have oddities. In relationships with humans, I have some trust issues. Shocking, I know. Somehow, always, they disappoint. Though we tell ourselves not to have expectations of others, we somehow, always, do. Now definitely, the rewards of interaction are worth the efforts, despite the times we are saddened and disenchanted. There is fluidity to relationships--- they are tensile and pliable, similar to the gentle chaotic flow of wax blobs in lava lamps. And, I do enjoy relationships. I like romance; I like friendship; I’m even glad for some of the kinfolk. Words, though, are timeless; they have placid permanence, accompanying me through the whole of life. And, if the relationship between words and me is not going well, it is entirely my inadequacy. The words remain flawless.

One may speculate as to if I have a disorder. Am I obsessed? Do I suffer from logomania and/or graphomania? I feel secure in stating that, despite other psychological issues, I do not have a pathological compulsion with either words or writing. But, there are certain actions in my day that are habitual (it is so different), including but not limited to: relieving my bladder, partaking in hygiene practices, listening to music, playing with my animals, and writing. While others may spend a few hours watching television or shopping or partaking in sports, I play with words. I juggle them and twist them and twirl them and throw them into the air to see how they land. Each one is unparalleled, similar to the snowflakes I catch with my tongue, but instead enticed within the whimsical webbing of Wernicke’s area. My entire life is whirling lexical rapture. Truthfully, I wouldn’t want it any other way. I am content with words, overjoyed with words, impassioned by words… my inamorata.

Dependence.

Here’s a conundrum: we are encouraged to rely upon others yet be independent, to be self-sufficient yet depend upon our friends. Troublesome, yes? We admire ambitious go-getters, uncontrolled fireballs who make it on their own after walking on hot coals and not being taken by “the man”, fighting the system and the power. Because anything you can do, oh hell yeah, doing it better. Rock on, free bird.

We also have a high opinion of those who wonder where all the flowers have gone, and being in possession of a hammer, they get up early and hammer in the morning, cooperating and selflessly working toward common good, the betterment of the village, sacrificing for others so that generations to come experience freedom and hope because this land was made for you and me, for gosh sake.

I reckon we’re screwed in this riddle.

As a child, I concluded that the only person who could take care of me was me. I had encountered some difficult family situations and that coupled with uprooting and relocating numerous times, gave me a sense of aloneness in the world. Without a shoulder to lean or cry upon, I strived for complete independence. I was willful, strong, determined, and purposeful. Promoted to store manager when I was twenty-one, I bought my first condo less than two years later. Kicking up my heels and swinging round a lamppost, I was on my way. I was never a rip-roaring giant head, hoarding my minimal wealth and dismissing others with scornful spit. Picking up bar tabs, sending checks to Greenpeace, and slipping Jacksons to friends in need were commonplace. It was fine for others to receive assistance from me, but ignominious for me to rely upon them. One of the synonyms for dependent is minion. Sweet. That’s how we feel, though, isn’t it? We feel as if we are subordinate to others, that perhaps we were on equal ground and now that we have asked for assistance, we have dropped a level and are beneath others. We feel helpless when we ask for help. And yet, if others ask us for help, we don’t think of them as weak, we don’t judge them to be powerless, obsequious followers. Why do we judge ourselves differently than others? We all have peaks and valleys; we just feel much more comfortable peaking. We never know how deep the valleys will be. We toddle along thinking that rainbows and a Starbucks are just over the ridge. When we see vultures circling over us and bleached bones poking up from the sand, we think, ‘Well, that can’t be good.’

Not too long ago, I encountered modifying factors. What might those be? I prefer the term to “circumstances.” The reason for that is because it sounds less vulnerable. We all have a contingency factor, right? Some kind of conditions that influence or determine the outcome, and quite frankly, most of the time, circumstances are unpleasant. It’s rare for one to hear, “Due to circumstances, she overwhelmingly succeeded in life!” Nope. She succeeded because of hard work and drive, because of fate or angels or prayers, because of daddy’s investments and mother’s connections. We hear, “Due to circumstances, she was broken down, wiped out, poor and nearly dead.” That’s not happy. Due to those snidely circumstances, I found myself experiencing a muckle of madness. Without my friends and family, right now I would be homeless. I’m a pretty scrappy gal, but I’m not sure how I would handle that. If I were to venture a guess, here’s what I think would happen: drugs, a lot of freakin’ drugs. I would be a toothless, emaciated skank in a very short period of time. This is not because I don’t have confidence in myself, that I don’t believe I can pull up them-there bootstraps. This is because everyone has a bottom, a place they hit hard and cannot climb out. I have learned through forty years that I can be sick, I can be poor, I can be challenged, I can be broken, but I cannot be alone. I cannot be without those I love who love me back. Despite my Pee-wee Herman quoting of being “a loner, Dottie, a rebel”, I cannot be without support and guidance and wisdom from others. At times, I rely upon others whether emotionally, physically, or financially. Does it make me weak? Somewhat, but is it a defect or is it fragility? Is it fault or vulnerability? For me, the difficulty comes from the essence of feeling unfree. But, that is my own doing, my own twisted thinking. The restraints I feel are in opposition to the liberation others are giving me by providing me independence by allowing me to depend upon them. That’s a labyrinthine, tortuous tangle.

So then, how do we resolve accepting assistance without internal self-flagellation? I pondered this for a short time which resulted in three ideas: 1) Wear soft shoes and pretend all of your friends are Cheyenne; 2) designate Miss Manners as your shoulder angel; 3) read books on Adlerian psychology and nursery rhymes at the same time. I’m going to expound on this so as not to give the impression that my intellectual faculties are deteriorating. First, if your companions are all Cheyenne, they would never judge a man until they had walked two moons in his moccasins. Eh? See? Very Polonius of me, yes? Next, if Judith Martin was sitting cross-legged with hands folded upon her knees, resting smugly on your shoulder (and, of course, she was very, very tiny), she would whisper in your ear to be nice, gracious, and express your thanks, then shut your pie-hole. I believe she’s edgier when she is miniaturized. Finally, keep in mind that the song lyrics are, “See saw sacradown, which is the way to London town? One boot up, and the other down, and this is the way to London town.” Simple, playful, nonsensical, just as traditional verse for children should be. The lyrics are not, “See saw Nero’s crown, narcissist or meltdown? Ego up or self-loathing drown, inferiority complex will jumble you ‘round.” When it comes to mindfucks, stand on the pivot bar.

In my defense, I mulled this quandary over right before fading into a hazy pseudo-nap in which the last thing I heard was, “The Final Countdown” by Europe and the last thing I did was eat mango sorbet too quickly which resulted in my blood vessels swelling from brain freeze. I think maybe I should just say, “Thank you,” and retire for the evening.

To my friends, thank you.