If you watch the TV aquarium channel long enough, about three hours or so, a really big fish will swim across the screen. There's no way of knowing exactly when the fish will appear, but you'll eventually see it if you wait long enough. Approximately three hours of waiting for 30 seconds of glory. I can remember times in my life when I was depressed enough that I could have watched the aquarium channel long enough to catch the big fish. In fact, I probably could have repeated that cycle a few more times and, well, there's my whole day crossed off. I wouldn't describe myself as a patient person, but I have never had more patience than when I was depressed. Depressed people are some of the most patient people on the planet. Maybe that's why psychiatry waitlists are so long. The patience required for tasks like watching paint dry or hoping a plant will grow is a warm security blanket. You know you'll be here for awhile. You know that change will be gradual. You pluck peace out of the air and tell it that it's yours for the day. But once you know the exact number of bumps on your popcorn ceiling, you wonder where the definition of "accomplishment" starts and where it ends. The security blanket is a little too scratchy in some places, and you realize that the only reason it's warm is because your body heat makes it so.
Sometimes the problem is knowing what you're waiting for, or maybe even knowing that you're waiting at all. Because if you catch the big fish, that rush of adrenaline might just remind you that good things don't come to those who wait; they come to those who deserve it. And then you can finally turn off the TV.
