The measure of the heart is found
not in the stride, but in the pausing ground.
For grace is never a hurried thing—
goodness requires a slow-ripening spring.
Consider the rice within the pot:
rush the flame, and the core is caught
in stubborn hardness, raw and blind.
So it is with the human mind;
we cannot force the fruits of time,
nor rush a mountain we’ve yet to climb.
Lean into the quiet, simple trust
of a child who knows the universe is just.
What is written for your name
will find its way through wind and flame.
It asks for space, it asks for peace,
until the hours of waiting cease.
Yes, the shadows will try to speak—
making you anxious, heavy, and weak.
Guilt will whisper you’ve fallen behind,
and confusion will cloud a weary mind.
But Time and the Divine are weaving a thread,
quieting the storms inside your head.
To rush the design is to drain the soul;
patience alone will make you whole.
I still hear the voice of a gentle friend,
whose words could make the hurrying bend:
“Do not worry, come carefully, my dear,
there is plenty of time, there is nothing to fear.”
A cadence so soft, a comfort so deep,
it lulled the ghosts of lateness to sleep.
So let the waiting period be
a holy, grounded sanctuary.
In this long journey, do not just abide—
but find the joy on the quiet side.
For everything beautiful, true, and sublime,
is simply waiting on its own sweet time.