Recently, a package arrived for my 13-year-old son, which I had not anticipated until Monday. He, however, was counting on it arriving by 8 p.m. Sunday as the tracking information had indicated. When I informed him that it was shipped via USPS, which doesn’t operate on Sundays, his enthusiasm visibly deflated. He would have to wait an extra day for the coveted headphones he had meticulously researched and saved for.
In these moments, I sometimes find myself getting a bit irritable. My son’s emotional reactions to minor disruptions remind me of the privileges he enjoys, making it hard for him to cope with waiting for something he desires. I pointed out to him that he could find other things to distract himself while he waited.
I am, after all, a bit of a hypocrite. Last year, while sharing breakfast with a colleague, she casually mentioned her side gig as a medium. Forget any professional dialogue; once the topic shifted to communicating with the deceased, my attention was completely captivated.
I am aware that some individuals profit by exploiting the gullible with false messages from the afterlife. Yet, I also believe there are genuine psychics, much like mathematicians or arachnophiles—just because I can’t comprehend it doesn’t mean it isn’t real. I would like to think that there’s something beyond our physical existence, even if it eludes my understanding.
Intrigued, I eventually signed up for a session with my medium friend. I was tasked with identifying a burning question to focus on without revealing it to her. In return, she would spend time thinking about me and channeling anything that needed to be expressed. She later sent me a recording of our session.
I won’t disclose my question, but let’s say it concerned long-held wishes and aspirations, possibly involving a Mediterranean cruise, ticker tape parades, and a chic wardrobe. Actually, scratch the wardrobe; I’d prefer it if yoga pants were considered professional attire and flip-flops were the latest trend in power footwear.
However, my medium had no insights on cruises or parades. Instead, she relayed that my spirit guide appeared as a character reminiscent of Roberto Benigni dressed in bright workout gear, merrily running along a railroad track, munching on popcorn and discussing pigeons.
If this is my spirit guide in spandex, perhaps the message is that not all answers will come easily or immediately. I need to learn to relax and let things unfold naturally, which is precisely the type of advice that makes me want to sulk about my unfulfilled desires.
There’s a particular route I often take to downtown when I’m running late, convinced that I might save a few precious minutes. However, this route includes a traffic light that we have dubbed the “punishment light.” It seems to stay red for an eternity, turning green just out of reach, making me wait several long minutes with no apparent reason.
This “punishment light” symbolizes the delays we all face—like my son’s expected package that didn’t arrive on time, or my medium’s eccentric vision. It serves as a reminder that there are people dealing with far more significant wait times than I am, nudging me to embrace real patience instead of simply wishing for instant gratification.
Sometimes, the universe sends us these little reminders to take a breath and slow down. Other times, it’s just a traffic light. Yet, surprisingly, that package did arrive earlier than expected, bringing joy to my son.
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In summary, life’s little delays can teach us valuable lessons about patience and perspective, reminding us to appreciate what we have and to wait for the things that truly matter.