Winter's Patience

The icicle has been hanging on the eave of our home for days now, maybe even weeks.

My instinct is to knock it off, to remove it with one swift blow. But I cannot reach it, so I am forced to be patient. I am forced to watch it slowly melt and fall to the earth. I am forced to let it melt in its own time and at its own pace.

But I am not good at being patient. As a child, I used to run to the tree on Christmas morning and start unwrapping gifts before my parents woke up. As a reporter, I would swoop in to get the story and rush back to my desk to pound out the latest news on my keyboard. And as a mother, I often can't wait for my son to do things his way and I sometimes end up doing things for him in the interest of time. My time.

But this icicle mocks me. It isn't interested in my timetable. Instead, it savors every moment before it's ready to release its grip on the eave. And in hushed, patient whispers it tells me to slow down.

It tells me to stop rushing through life. It tells me to experience all there is in this world; to savor every moment and everything.

The icicle will fall, but not according to my schedule.

Slow down.

Linger.

Wait.

Winter is patient.