“Patience is bitter, but its fruit is sweet.”
Aristotle
My daily ritual at the office begins at the Keurig.
There’s something comforting about it—this quiet moment before the chaos, the small talk, the gentle hum of the inbox filling itself. Just me, a machine, and the faint hope that Newman’s Own Extra Bold will finally live up to its name.
I love coffee. Not in the sophisticated, “notes of citrus and oak” kind of way. No, I’m a cream-and-sugar man. I like my coffee the way a child likes chocolate milk—with enthusiasm and denial.
And yet, I’ve noticed something troubling: I rush the process. Every time.
There’s no line. No meeting waiting on me. The coffee maker is literally in the center of the room, surrounded by friendly chatter. And still, I stand there like I’m defusing a bomb—tapping my foot, watching the stream, willing it to finish faster.
I think it’s because I’ve trained myself to be impatient.
Some people practice mindfulness. I practice muttering “come on, come on, come on” at inanimate objects.
It’s not just the coffee. It’s the microwave popcorn. The kids’ bedtime routine. My wife’s stories that begin with, “You’ll never believe who I ran into at Target.”
Erosion doesn’t happen in storms—it happens drip by drip. And it turns out, impatience is great at small, daily erosion.
The thing is, patience isn’t glamorous. It doesn’t get a standing ovation. It’s just the quiet art of not losing your mind while your Keurig does its job.
So I’m trying to practice. To wait, stir, sip, and breathe.
Because maybe the real fruit of patience isn’t sweet—it’s just finally having time to taste your coffee before it goes cold.
