Look, I'm as impatient as the next person who honks their horn three seconds after the light turns green. I once microwaved a baked potato for 20 minutes because I couldn't wait the full hour in the oven. The result? A potato bomb that redecorated my kitchen ceiling in a pattern my landlord later described as "avant-garde starch art."
But here's my $.02 about our instant-everything world: we're missing out on a lot of the good stuff. The really good stuff. The stuff that makes life worth living instead of just scrolling through.
I’ve been thinking a lot about the homestead movement lately. It’s in many ways a return to roots, so to speak. A lot of homesteaders get up at an ungodly hour when most of us are still drooling into our memory foam pillows. These people understand something we've forgotten. Some things simply cannot be rushed, like my Aunt Mildred in the checkout line with her coupon organizer.
When a homesteader plants an orchard, they're basically saying, "I might be dead before these trees do anything useful." That's commitment.
Meanwhile, I abandon Netflix shows if the first episode doesn't grab me in the first seven minutes. I once switched toothpaste brands because the cap was slightly inconvenient.
This homesteader patience isn't just sitting around twiddling your thumbs. It's active, like my neighbor who "actively" watches my every move from behind her curtains. The homesteader waters during droughts, covers plants during frosts, and deals with pest control that doesn't involve simply screaming and throwing shoes.
Our ancestors got this. Before Amazon Prime made two-day shipping feel like an eternity, people preserved food for winter, built houses to last generations, and didn't expect things to happen at the speed of a TikTok dance trend.
True creation doesn't follow the timeline of our impatience; it adheres to its own natural rhythm that cannot be forced or accelerated without consequence.
Kind of like my son’s digestive system after attempting to eat an entire Chicago deep-dish pizza in one sitting.
The homesteader who rushes food preservation could very well end up with botulism. Not a great look.
The one who hastily builds a shelter gets a midnight roof collapse during the first snow – similar to my first attempt at building IKEA furniture, which I still refer to as "The Great Bookshelf Avalanche of 2018."
Think about sourdough bread made from a starter older than most marriages. Each loaf carries decades of history and care. You can't fake that flavor.
The homesteader knows some things must grow at their own pace. A homegrown tomato makes the grocery store version seem like a waxy prop food – the difference being roughly equivalent to comparing an authentic Italian pizza to the abomination I once ordered at a gas station at 2 AM.
For the one who creates, patience isn't merely waiting; it's a form of sacred attention that honors the natural unfolding of what’s coming-to-be and recognizes that some processes just have their own timing.
In our rush to finish things, we miss the wisdom in the waiting. The homesteader learns to read subtle signs – soil is ready for planting when the soil is ready for planting.
Modern society tries to convince us that faster is always better. That waiting is for chumps. I bought into this philosophy once and ended up with a "quick" home haircut that made me look like I'd been attacked by a weed whacker with a personal vendetta.
Quite simply, you can’t rush quality.
For the one who creates, patience isn't merely waiting; it's a form of sacred attention that honors the natural unfolding of what’s coming-to-be and recognizes that some processes just have their own timing.
We recently visited an old friend who moved to rural Vermont to start a small farm. Walking his property at dawn, watching him check his beehives with a calm I can only describe as meditative, I began to understand something profound about the relationship between time and value.
"The bees taught me patience," he told me, gently lifting a frame dripping with honey. "You can't hurry them along. They operate on bee time, not human time."
Bee time. Tree time. Fermentation time. These natural clocks don't sync with our digital calendars and productivity apps.
But the more time you spend with this guy, the more you realize that waiting transforms the ordinary into the extraordinary.
He showed me a batch of maple syrup he'd made that spring. Forty gallons of sap boiled down over many hours to create a single gallon of syrup. "Could I have used additives and shortcuts? Sure. Would it taste like this? Not a chance."
The syrup tasted like liquid amber – complex, rich, carrying subtle notes of the specific soil and trees it came from. It was maple syrup in 4D, while the stuff I buy at the supermarket suddenly seemed like a flat, pale imitation.
There's something here that goes beyond mere quality. The homesteader's approach to time creates a different relationship with what they produce.
The slow-grown, slow-made, slow-ripened isn't merely better – it carries embedded stories. The preserves on their shelves aren't just food; they're bottled summer sunshine. The hand-carved wooden spoons aren't just utensils; they're the tree, the hour, the maker's hand.
I found myself wondering: What stories do our mass-produced, rushed creations tell? What depth do they lack?
Walking through his vegetable garden, my friend pointed out different sections. "These are this year's potatoes. Those are next year's strawberries. And that section over there is preparing soil for crops I won't plant until the following spring."
The fallow field isn't empty but pregnant with possibility.
This long-view planning struck me as almost radical in our quarterly-results world. My friend wasn't just growing food; he was growing time itself – stretching it, understanding it, working within its true nature rather than constantly fighting against it.
Later, we sat on his porch as the evening painted the sky in impossible colors. He handed me a jar of pickles made from last year's cucumbers.
"The longer they sit, the better they get," he said. "Some things improve only through waiting."
I thought about my past life spent in the city – the deadlines, the rushing, the constant pushing to get more done faster. I thought about my relationships, my work, my creative projects. How many of them would benefit from this homesteader's understanding of time? How often do I sacrifice depth for speed?
We’re pushed to value what can be quickly produced over what quietly matures.
The crickets began their evening chorus as darkness settled. My friend lit a lantern rather than flipping on harsh electric lights. The gentle glow created shadows that danced across the weathered porch boards.
"Most people think homesteading is about self-sufficiency," he said, "but it's really about patience. About living in sync with how things actually grow and develop."
I realized that what homesteaders have preserved isn't just techniques for growing food or building shelter – they've maintained a healthier relationship with time itself. A relationship our ancestors understood intuitively but that we've nearly forgotten in our rush toward whatever comes next.
The next morning, watching him knead dough for bread with unhurried movements, I asked what he missed most about city life.
"Not much," he smiled. "Though sometimes I miss the illusion that everything could happen instantly. There was a certain thrill to that, even if it was ultimately unsatisfying."
I've carried his words with me since then. I've started making small changes – letting ideas develop more fully before executing them, allowing projects their natural gestation periods, resisting the urge to rush through experiences.
In summary, anything truly excellent requires the time to become what it's meant to be.
In our fast world, perhaps waiting the most radical act – to create slowly, to experience fully, to understand that some things simply cannot be rushed without losing their essence. The homesteader knows this. And if we're wise, we'll remember it too.
As I left his farm that weekend, my friend handed me a jar of honey from his hives. "This took the bees all summer to make," he said. "Enjoy it slowly."
It was simply divine on my pepperoni Hot Pocket later that night.
Just kidding.