Patience and Practice
“Patience, grasshopper,” is how Master Po, in the old Kung Fu TV series, would encourage his student to persevere in challenging assignments.
I’m not known for my patience. I frequently have to send a follow-up email just seconds after the first, with the subject line “Whoops,” because in my haste I forgot to attach the file or paste the link I was supposed to be including. Patience, Jane, patience, I tell myself.
“Patience, grasshopper, patience,” my friend Genie would tell me when my actions were miles ahead of my mind. At the time, I was a volunteer DJ at our local radio station, WDRT. Often, in my hurry, I’d forget to switch off the microphone after announcing what songs would be playing, and listeners could hear me start to panic when my laptop would freeze up or hear my ear-shattering yelp when someone stopped in with a zucchini as big as a canoe for my ducks.
Hearing someone scream while listening to music is not a good radio experience. Nor is having your favorite song drowned out by quacking ducklings. But I’m a person who yells out when I’m surprised, even when I see a common deer. Just ask Dane—he jumps every time. As for the ducklings, I couldn’t bear leaving them at the post office a minute longer, and my show was about to begin. I had no choice but to bring them into the booth with me.
When I worked at the West Allis Athletic Club, Jerre, the office manager, would stretch up to her full height, towering over me as she demanded that I slow down. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, a poster I had rushed to create would have a typo. Like the one advertising my friend Al White, an amazing keyboardist and singer, who would be performing in the Courtside Cafe that Friday. My poster said, “All White,” which I argued was close. But Jerre got the last word, reminding me harshly, “Al is African American, Jane!”
Keith, my old boss at the athletic club, would remind me to be patient and slow down almost every workday during my nearly 15 years there. I often mixed up my words in my rush to communicate, creating what he called “Janeisms.” I believe he kept track of my errors to use as entertainment for his dinner parties. After all, he was a former English teacher.
Keith’s office was downstairs, and mine was upstairs near the front desk, where members would check in. One day a member said there was a car in the parking lot with its lights on; he handed me a scrap of paper with the license plate number on it.
Not wanting to waste any daylight or let the member's battery wear down, I quickly grabbed the intercom, switched it on, and in my best professional and caring voice announced, “Would the owner of the car with the license plate ‘See Me For Head’ please come to the front desk. See Me For Head.”
As Keith came bounding up the steps two at a time, Gary, the front desk manager, explained that CME4-HD was Hal’s black Porsche and that the plate should be read as “See Me for Harley Davidson.” Hal, a hard-core handball player and a regular at the club, owned Hal’s Harley Davidson in New Berlin.
Loma, my talented editor, knows my impatience well. “Patience, grasshopper,” she pleads when I pester her about the edits she’s hard at work on—especially when I interrupt her with emails asking, “Are you still working on it?” I can almost hear her scream as she rips out her hair in frustration.
Patience, Jane, patience, I’ve reminded myself through the past 13 years of writing a weekly newspaper column. Dane, Tamara, Loma, and many others encourage me to take my time, rewrite, and read out loud—but the 8 p.m. Sunday deadline always comes quicker than I expect.
I’m the first to admit I need to work on my patience. I’d also be the first person to encourage anyone out there who’s short on patience not to give up. It’s better to laugh at our mistakes, learn from them, and keep on practicing whatever we’re passionate about.
After all, it’s the practice, more than the patience, that helps us reach our dreams.