Practicing Patience

“The strongest of all warriors are these two — Time and Patience.” ― Leo Tolstoy, War and Peace

I, by nature, am a very impatient person. When things don’t go according to my timetable or fast enough to suit me, I become frustrated and cranky. Patience is one of the foundations of mindfulness practice, and most days my failure at embodying patience just serves to send more lessons my way.

I’ve been working on a memoir for a while now, and I say “a while” because I can’t bring myself to voice the actual length of time it has taken ― going on 3 years ― 5 if you count some of it as a floundering grad school thesis. I seem to have written myself into a spot I can’t get out of (or more likely, I don’t want to confront). When I force myself to face how long it’s been under construction, abandoned, revised, torn apart, abandoned and picked up again, I torment myself with thoughts of inadequacy. Although intuitively I know I should be non-striving and stop grasping, my impatience gets the better of me.

After sitting at this memoir roadblock for a while, I’ve put it aside and been recommitting to my mindfulness practice. After a few weeks of letting it go and focusing on accepting things as they are, I had a conclusion epiphany. I call it a “conclusion epiphany” because this was my roadblock; I was at a wretchedly painful place in the memoir and could not figure out where or how to end it. Writers often find themselves at a roadblock when we come face-to-face with memories we’re not ready or willing to face; perhaps we subconsciously put up roadblocks so we don’t have to face the dragons. Obviously, I am an avoider as well as impatient. All this time, I was so close, and the closer to the conclusion I got, the more impatient I was to finish it. The more impatient I became, the more my brain shut down. The book floundered.

“Patience is a form of wisdom. It demonstrates that we understand and accept the fact that sometimes things must unfold in their own time.” ―  Jon Kabat-Zinn

Then, out of nowhere, the conclusion epiphany. After a year and a half of practically ignoring the whole memoir. It just came out of nowhere, over a cup of Sunday morning caramel nut coffee. I had spent a few weeks meditating and reading and thinking about things other than this damn book, and there it was. The end.

“Trees that are slow to grow bear the best fruit.” ― Molière

Of course, the idea is there, but I have yet to write it. But I’m recommitting to the memoir, and I’m going to let it unfold in a patient, non-judging, and non-striving mindful frame of mind. Or at least that’s my plan.

 

Writing with a Beginner’s Mind

One of the basic tenents of mindfulness is beginner’s mind. Beginner’s mind refers to the act of thinking like a beginner as you engage in any activity. Can you think back to when you first started writing (or painting, or gardening, or even showering) and how you were thoughtful about the choice of each word, how excited you felt when you discovered the perfect metaphor, the sense of accomplishment you felt after a long stretch of writing? As writers, many of us have been writing so long that we just cruise on autopilot, but how would your writing be different if you came to it from a different perspective, that of a novice?

For those of us who have been at it a while, we often forget why we chose to take up this often frustrating, isolating, vexing profession/trade. Bringing a beginner’s mind to our writing can serve to open up new channels of creativity that might become blocked by a fixed, stale perspective.

All writers, at some point, must have possessed a love of language. Think back to what made you fall in love with storytelling. I always got a rush when I discovered the perfect conclusion, not because I knew I was done, but I just love great conclusions. I love the art of pacing and rhythm to get there and the moment of release with that final line. After writing a while, I found that I didn’t appreciate those hard-won endings as much I once did. The novelty of creating them had worn off. The mindfulness practice of beginner’s mind offers writers the opportunity to re-discover the joy we once experienced in the act of writing.

Exercise

Think back to the first time you picked up a pen or pencil or tapped a keyboard. What did it feel like, on an emotional level? Can you recall? Were you excited? Enthusiastic? Terrified?

Now think back to what you felt on a physical level. Did you enjoy the feel of the perfect fine-tipped pen in your hand? Did you hold a spiral notebook, or were you the yellow legal pad type? Maybe you never wrote a word longhand, but have always typed because you liked the feel and sound of tapping keys.

If you began writing by hand and now only type, even your first drafts, try writing by hand and see what happens. Going back to our writing roots is often a great way of unblocking our stuck creativity.

Let me know how it goes!

Be Present

I recently attended a mindfulness workshop where the facilitator was explaining the principles of mindfulness when he said something that woke me up. “The past is a memory; the future is a vision. All there is, is the present.”

As a memoirist, I tend to live in the past. This is what I write about, and have written about, for at least the last decade. When I write about my past, I immediately live it. I don’t relive it; I live it, like it was happening all over again. Believe me, if it were possible to relive it, I’d revise it extensively!

He was right; the past is simply a memory, but how often do we continue to live in the past? How often do we become so entrenched in what happened way back when, that we fail to focus on what is happening now?

“When your past calls, don’t answer. It has nothing new to say.”

This quote just popped up on my Facebook page (coincidence?). Sometimes our past keeps calling, and we keep answering, even though we know what it’s going to say. There aren’t many rules of life, but one rule I’ve learned the hard way is that we can’t change the past. We all know this. So why do we spend so much time there?

As mindful writers, we often mine our past for stories. Sometimes these stories dredge up painful memories, and we embody these memories in every cell of our being. If you have a painful memory that keeps popping up, causing you discomfort or despair, consider re-writing it.

First, write down the memory as you remember it, then, on a new page, write it down the way you wish it would have happened. As you write, envision how all of the people involved, including yourself, could act differently to create a different outcome. If someone is physically harming you, create a large protective wall that keeps you safe. If a situation didn’t go the way you wanted, re-write it as you wanted it. Re-imagine events in a way that brings you joy. Write it down.

You’ve created a new story. Check in with your body. How do you feel?