Do not measure in terms of time: one year or ten years means nothing.
For the artist there is no counting or tallying up; just ripening like the tree that does not force its sap and endures the storms of spring without fearing that summer will not come. But it will come. It comes, however, only to the patient ones who stand there as if all eternity lay before them—vast, still, untroubled. I learn this every day of my life, I learn it from hardships I am grateful for: patience is all. –Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet
Patience, that long-suffering word, is
for our time, a holy place
where we can plant our yearnings
alongside hope and persistence,
like a garden planted in a neighborhood of despair.
I long for the time when my country moves toward sanity,
When health care is declared a right for all,
When climate change is taken seriously,
When God and Caesar are not confused,
When vulgarity is not rewarded,
When Jesus no longer weeps. . . .
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