Patience doesn't mean making a pact with the devil of denial

Hear now the voice of Sharon Salzberg, who proclaimed with clarity and compassion: “Patience doesn’t mean making a pact with the devil of denial, ignoring our emotions and aspirations. It means being wholeheartedly engaged in the process that’s unfolding, rather than ripping open a budding flower or demanding a caterpillar hurry up and get that chrysalis stage over with.” These words, though gentle in their imagery, are thunderous in their truth. They remind us that to live wisely is not to flee from longing or grief, nor to force life to yield its fruits before their time, but to walk in rhythm with the unfolding of all things.

When Salzberg speaks of patience, she does not describe the cold endurance of a prisoner counting stones on a cell wall, nor the numb surrender of one who has forsaken all hope. She warns against such false patience, the “pact with the devil of denial,” which is but a mask over despair. True patience is not lifeless waiting, but living presence. It is not turning away from the ache of desire or the fire of ambition, but holding them tenderly while still honoring the natural seasons of growth.

The metaphors she gives—the flower and the caterpillar—are not chosen lightly. A flower cannot be torn open without destroying its beauty; its petals must unfurl in their own time, nourished by sun and rain. A caterpillar cannot be commanded to break free before its hour, for its wings are formed in the mystery of stillness. To demand haste is to destroy the very miracle one seeks. So too with our lives: dreams, relationships, healing, and wisdom all require the steady unfolding of days. To rush them is to wound them; to allow them is to behold their wonder.

Consider the story of Nelson Mandela, who endured twenty-seven years in prison under a merciless regime. Had he surrendered to bitterness, or forced events prematurely, he might have emerged broken or forgotten. Yet he lived those long years with patience—not denial, but deep engagement with his vision of justice. He studied, he reflected, he held fast to hope, until the season arrived when freedom bloomed not only for himself but for his nation. His life is a testament to Salzberg’s teaching: that patience is not passive waiting but active trust in the unfolding of time.

Thus the origin of her words lies in the ancient wisdom of nature itself. The earth has always spoken this truth to those who listen: seeds lie in darkness before they sprout; rivers carve canyons not by haste but by persistence; children learn not in one day but in many. To live in harmony with these rhythms is to free oneself from the torment of urgency, to dwell in peace while still striving toward noble ends.

The lesson, O listener, is this: do not confuse patience with suppression. To silence your emotions is to close the door to your own humanity. Instead, acknowledge your longing, your pain, your yearning—but hold them as one holds a lantern in the night: gently, steadily, without letting the flame consume you. Trust that your path, like the flower and the caterpillar, is unfolding with a wisdom greater than your own.

Practical action lies before you: when you are restless, breathe deeply and recall that growth cannot be forced. When you are discouraged, remind yourself of those who endured long struggles and yet prevailed. When you are tempted to tear open the future with your own hands, step back and ask: What season am I in? Then give yourself permission to walk it fully. This is not idleness—it is the discipline of presence, the courage to let life bloom in its own time.

So let Salzberg’s words echo in your heart: patience is not denial, but devotion. It is the art of being fully alive in the unfolding moment, trusting that what is meant to be will come forth when the season is ripe. Carry this teaching with you, and you will find that your life, too, blossoms not in haste but in harmony with the eternal rhythms of creation. Wait, not with despair, but with love.