I tie my hair to the right side. I am in the rowboat. I echo on the memory of other people rowing beside me, but that feels like a wish more than reality.

I am wearing a silk robe, like a kimono. The breeze on the water is lovely. My fingernails are too long; they get in the way of the rowing somehow. I will remember to trim them later. 

I make it to my riverbank. It’s not really mine, but every visit, I’m drawn to the same spot, even if its surroundings change. Today, the green-covered karsts jut out all around me, and I’m glad of it.

I wonder if my language is too formal for this place, but as with everything here, it feels right.

Underneath my robe, I wear a very simple outfit in taupe and beige: a sleeveless linen shirt with a top half button placket, and loose linen shorts with a tie waist. I find my flat dirt rock perch and test the water. Bracing, as always.

I am here, I say, though this place doesn’t need me to tell it that. I am willing to listen.

Confusion and hesitation are still with me from the other world. Hesitation borne of insecurity and fear of being wrong. 

I am here to listen. It doesn’t matter what I brought with me — fear, uncertainty — from the other place. I will not pull the strings for my company today.

I sense someone is watching me. Not in a threatening way. I don’t want to turn around. I feel they will approach me at their own pace.

But I ask a question.

Who are you? Will you come talk to me?

It is a man. I am not sure if I’ve seen a man here yet. I do not see his garb or his face.

Who are you, I ask him again.

I AM PATIENCE.

I fret. Should I be doing something else aside from sitting with my feet in the water, always in a posture of leisure? So that I can understand how Patience operates when I am active? For I’ve spent so much of my writing life in passive patience, as if something will materialize of its own accord where there wasn’t anything before.

He doesn’t wait for my next question.

PATIENCE DOESN’T NEED TO SEE.

I am already interpreting his words. Maybe I am interpreting them to suit my needs, but I believe I am right: Patience doesn’t need to see the path or the outcome. Patience trusts that I will create, and in creating, I will lead myself forward. 

Do you mean to say that when I try to predict, I fool myself? Or that I get in the way of creating?

PATIENCE DOES NOT NEED TO SEE —  

— but it needs to keep moving forward? 

I am finishing his sentences, and I laugh to myself that he doesn’t reprimand me or correct me. He is Patience, after all. Still, I know this isn’t what he’s trying to tell me.

I mull with it, sit with his words, while I feel the icy water on my feet. Funny, I don’t shiver here. The temperature is perfect.

PATIENCE DOESN’T WANT.

You’re talking about outcomes. Patience doesn’t plan? Patience doesn’t force its way? Should I be Patience when I work? 

Should I channel you?