If you ask for patience, you will not be given patience. You will be presented with all the obstacles so you can practice it.
I was in the most turbulent stage of my life. I was 33 years old, my mother had passed away just a few months before, and I was trying to transition to a friendship after almost six years of a relationship with my partner. Additionally, time was running out, and I had to finish my PhD in five months.
Of the seven years I had been a migrant in Germany, most of the time, I had exceptional company and felt truly supported. Now, without a partner here and without a mother there, I felt orphaned and abandoned. I found myself without ground and without a horizon, with canceled dreams, because those two people who knew me best and who had been present in my future would no longer be in the same way.
Even so, I tried to keep my balance, working only eight or nine hours a day and dedicating the rest of the time to myself. I tried to entertain myself with exercise twice a week, going to festivals here and there, walking in the forest, seeing friends, and reading a bit at night. But when I returned to what should be my safe place, my apartment, I felt the weight of loneliness, of memories, of absence. I felt that my future was sealed and doomed.
In one way or another, the stories of other people around me had taught me something for life. Although sadness requires moments of introspection, mourning, and isolation, when it becomes a habit, it can lead us to increasingly darker places in our minds, to the point where we can no longer see and cannot find our way back. My father used to tell me the story of when my uncle Alonso fell into a deep depression when he was 19 years old and locked himself in a room at the farm for 11 months, abandoning himself to the world's fate, without bathing, without talking to anyone, receiving the food his brothers brought him, and lying in bed all day.
For me, locking myself away to seek answers under a daily routine that only allowed me to see one perspective of the problema, was not an option.
One day, in the midst of that emotional storm, I decided to go for a walk in the mountains. My goal was to find a place where I could set up a tent and a hammock to come and sleep in nature in the coming days. It was summer, but this year, the season had proven to be unpredictable; there were very gray days where it didn't stop raining, others hot and sunny, and sometimes sun and rain on the same day. I looked at the forecast for that day, and it promised rain after 9 p.m. I would be back home by then, so I put on my shorts, packed my hammock, prepared some food, and set out at 2 pm.
I went out to walk my anxiety, I thought to myself, as this feeling of being and not being had been with me for several months. It happened when I was alone, that I couldn't quiet my mind or be only with myself and my surroundings, as if a cascade of urgent and unavoidable tasks had to be done at that very moment. I was almost always thinking about what I would do next, living in the future rather than the present. I needed urgent answers to my questions, and that search caused me restlessness, demanding that my mind give me solutions, and of course, the pressure was immense because much of my vital energy went into self-pressuring and rethinking all possible scenarios of my life, many of which were unreal.
To quiet my mind a bit, I decided to call my friend Eira and have her accompany me with her stories while I walked. She told me she was struggling to cope with the breakup of her last relationship, that she couldn't sleep well, that she thought about her ex every day, that she had questions left to ask him and things to tell him. But above all, she needed to find the meaning of her life at this moment. Eira's words conveyed anxiety and impatience, an urgency to find the meaning of her life.
Just then, something clicked. I could see the absurdity of the situation from the outside and said to her: “Why do you have to find answers so quickly? Why put so much pressure on yourself right now, like jumping from one storm to another, from suffering for another person to causing suffering to yourself? Allow yourself not to think about the transcendental aspects of life, not to be rushed into making big decisions. I think it can be a beautiful moment to simply release that pressure and take care of the basics: your emotional, physical, and spiritual well-being.”
"Talking brings understanding," she used to say, and I would add, "and you also understand yourself." By the end of our conversation, we concluded that the call had been as beneficial for me as it was for her.
The first half hour of conversation and walking passed through the residential buildings in downtown Jena. Then I crossed the neighborhoods of gigantic houses on the outskirts of the Saale river valley to start climbing the mountain and cross a strip of forest. Finally, I reached the summit called Sendemast Kernberger, where there is a telecommunications tower. From there, you can see the city from about 300 meters above. At that moment, the sky turned gray, and soft raindrops began to fall. I said goodbye to Eira to make some decisions. I was alone once again. I continued walking towards the meadows, crossing an undulating topography of grasslands with forest remnants on the side.
It was evident that it was going to rain, and I felt increasingly far from a safe place. The first thunders were heard, and the forecast now spoke of an imminent thunderstorm. It was only 3 p.m. I considered returning to the apartment, even though I knew I wouldn't make it before the storm started. "At least I'd be on my way to a warm and sheltered place," I told myself. I walked for several minutes, anxious to choose between the two paths I thought I had: on one hand, returning home defeated without achieving my goal; and on the other, the fear of being at the mercy of a force greater than myself.
Just then, as the raindrops grew thicker, the winds more violent, and the sky more threatening, I noticed a wooden cabin a few meters above the ground, used by hunters to wait for the wild animals to appear. I realized there was a third possibility, that I didn't have to make a big decision, that I could simply "wait" for the circumstances to change and not pressure myself to take a definitive path.
I took refuge in that square meter of the cabin and simply waited, watching as the drizzle evolved into rain, then into a downpour, and finally into a thunderstorm. I could see everything from inside, as these cabins are not completely closed. I was getting a little wet and doubted my decision when the strong winds threatened to topple the structure. However, I also appreciated the beauty of the storm from inside; I even embraced and accepted it as part of my day.
I dedicated myself to waiting for more than an hour, with unwavering patience, until the rain stopped and I felt confident to continue. I left the cabin, stretched, looked around, and said, "I'm glad I didn't turn back." I continued walking east, seeing landscapes my eyes had never seen, touched by the beauty of nature, the softness of the meadows, and excited to find trees where I could hang my hammock. I walked empowered and with a smile on my face.
At that moment, I understood that storms are inevitable, and if you are in one, you will get wet, maybe a little, maybe a lot. But they will not last forever, and overcoming them does not necessarily mean leaving them while they are happening but sitting and waiting for a better moment to make a decision.
Jena, Germany. July 7, 2024
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