It is strange that the years teach us patience; that the shorter

The words of Elizabeth Taylor—“It is strange that the years teach us patience; that the shorter our time, the greater our capacity for waiting”—speak with the quiet weight of experience. In them lies a paradox: as life’s sands run thinner, the soul learns to wait more deeply. The young, who possess an abundance of time, are restless, eager to race ahead; the old, who possess far less, seem often calmer, slower to rush, more willing to wait. This is the mystery Taylor unveils: time diminishes, yet patience grows.

The origin of this truth is found in the nature of aging itself. Youth lives in fire—each day too short, each delay unbearable, each obstacle an insult to desire. Age, however, having endured storms, griefs, and countless delays, discovers that life is not conquered by haste. The years teach what no sermon can: that nothing blooms instantly, that sorrow passes only with time, that victories often come after long winters of labor. Thus, when time becomes scarce, patience becomes abundant—not because one has more hours to spare, but because one has finally learned the futility of rushing.

Consider the story of Nelson Mandela, who spent twenty-seven long years in prison, his nation divided, his cause suppressed. In youth, he had fought with fire, but it was in his long captivity that he learned the power of patience. When at last he emerged into freedom, he did not clamor for revenge, nor rush to reclaim power with violence. Instead, he waited, he built, he forgave, and he united. Though his remaining years were fewer, his capacity for waiting, for enduring, had grown vast. His patience, born in the crucible of suffering and years, gave him the strength to shepherd a nation from darkness into light.

Taylor’s words remind us that patience is not a weakness but a hard-won strength. The young mistake waiting for wasting, but the old know that waiting ripens fruit, heals wounds, and reveals truths that haste blinds us to. Patience does not mean surrender—it means endurance, the power to hold steady while the storm rages, the wisdom to know that the river will carve its course without being forced.

And yet, there is irony here: why should those with less time left become more willing to wait? Perhaps because they have seen that rushing does not truly lengthen life. Perhaps because they have learned that each moment, even in waiting, holds its own depth. Or perhaps because they have recognized that all of life is waiting: for harvest after planting, for healing after grief, for dawn after night. To wait with peace, then, is to live fully, even as the clock shortens.

The lesson for us, then, is simple yet profound: learn patience before the years teach it with their hardships. Do not wait until your time is short to value waiting. Practice patience daily—when a task takes longer than expected, when another human tests your spirit, when life denies you instant reward. In such moments, you are forging the strength that the elders know, the calm that gives dignity to the fleeting years.

In practice, this means slowing your steps when the world pushes you to rush. It means pausing before anger, breathing before haste, listening before speaking. It means remembering that every great work—whether a cathedral, a nation, or a character—is built not in days but in decades. If the elders can wait, though they count fewer days ahead, how much more should the young learn to wait, with time enough to see the fruit of their patience?

Thus, let Taylor’s wisdom echo: time shortens, patience deepens. The true wealth of age is not gold, nor power, nor years—it is the calm endurance that sees beyond the moment. If you would live wisely, let patience dwell with you now, so that when your days grow fewer, you may say not that you rushed blindly through life, but that you waited, endured, and lived each season in its fullness.