A life of poetic irony

It's kind of funny. Those who know me well know that I was (well, let's not kid ourselves, am) an incredibly impatient person. I'm a very goal oriented and driven worker bee, who becomes even more so when circumstances don't immediately bend to my will. Looking back over the course of my life, the paths I've taken and the choices I've made have to make me chuckle - because it's so painfully apparent just how hard my subconscious has been trying to teach me patience.

When I was fourteen, I officially met my (now) husband, Jeffrey. He had been our paper boy for years before, but at that age, I "caught up" to him. For the first time we attended the same school, and sang in the same choir. He was quiet, awkward, and three years older than me, and for reasons my adolescent mind couldn't yet understand, I was unconditionally smitten with him. So smitten, in fact, that I paid him to teach me to play the guitar despite having already been taught by my father. This only lasted a few months, but it's a testament to how baldy I wanted to spend time with him. Over time we became close friends. We never dated, never had any form of physical contact until one day, seven years later, he proposed. That's a whole other story that should be saved for another time. But isn't it strange? Did I choose someone, without even realizing it myself, who would challenge my impatience and make me a better person?

Another example is my career path. I love writing; it's a drug with no adverse effects. But pursuing the life of a published author demands quite a lot of patience as well. I finished my first novel in October of 2010, and have been actively querying and seeking representation since. And according to every article I've read on the subject, this is absolutely to be expected. I would always love writing, there's no escaping it, but did I subconsciously choose to pursue publication, not only to share my work, but to further learn how to wait?

Even before I took the plunge, and committed to pursuing what I really wanted in life, I was studying to become a doctor. I had chosen a program that would take at minimum eight years to complete, not including internships. And I wasn't content to become just any doctor, I wanted to be a neurosurgeon. Granted, I didn't submerge myself for terribly long into this world, but it's still curious. Was I forming goals that, though I wasn't terribly passionate about, would still teach me patience?

Or perhaps great things in life require patience of us all. I suppose such things are worth waiting for, in fact, I'm certain they are. Maybe I've learned something after all.