There was once a woman who wished more than anything to be of service to the people around her. They were in need of many things, among them food and shelter and care of all sorts, and she dedicated herself to being of use. There was just one problem.
Well, several problems. She was an atrocious cook, a worse handyperson, and while she cared deeply about people she didn't have the knack for bringing calm into a situation the way a good nurse or caregiver could. Each of these tasks she applied herself to seemed to go worse than the last, and she was sad to discover that she lacked the gifts that people needed.
Eventually, with something like despair, she turned away from what she had imagined her life to be, and instead joined a temple that was focused on study and contemplation. Almost immediately, she felt a voice inside her - quiet, but insistent - rumble, "It's about time." She took this as a sign, because this seemed more pleasant than assuming that she was going crazy, and she stuck with those studies and that contemplation.
Now, this was hard, because that's hard work, but more than that it was hard because she still desperately wanted to be of service. Knowing that she wasn't capable of doing any of those things well didn't make her any less aware of the need to have them done, and so each day of study at the temple and each night of contemplation with the spirit carried tension that simply would not resolve.
This went on for years. She learned and she worked and she opened herself to the divine and over time, she began to glimpse something vague and shadowy, a form whose edges seemed to ripple and sway, and she set her sights on that form with her very soul. She dedicated herself to it, whatever it was, because it called to her in a way that she had never before known. And that same voice from before, said, "It's about time," just as quietly and as rumbly as before.
Now, we've heard stories like this before, and so had she. But when you're in the story, all of those things you know about how the story works - all the shortcuts that are so obvious when you read or hear or tell the story about someone else - tend to fall away, and so they did for the woman. She had to go the long way round, through years of tension and study and contemplation. She heard the voices of the world around her calling out for aid, and she heard - very occasionally - that rumbling internal voice speak its one phrase, when she seemed to be on the right track to that shadowy, shimmery form that her soul knew and her dedication drew her closer to.
Eventually, one day, that image she pursued dissipated, not because the woman had left her path or failed in some way, but because she was right on top of it. Just before it evaporated, though, she caught a glimpse of it in greater clarity than she ever had, as if in a perfect mirror. A woman, seated. Filled with such knowledge that it may as well be bursting forth from her mind. Possessing a soul so rich that it emanated from her, touching those around her who needed that richness. Poised between - perfectly between - the voices of the world without and the voice of fulfillment within. A woman, in short, full in her power and her authority, in service to the world and to her soul with those same gifts.
And in seeing that image, which she had been pursuing for longer than she realized it even existed, and which now simply waited for her to claim its truth, the woman smiled just a little and murmured, "It's about time."