Waiting

Sometimes waiting feels like the slow drip, drip, drip of the melting snow on our rooftop. A welcome melody hinting towards the springtime to come. Yet, I know that season is still quite a long way off.

Other times it feels like the best way to view life. We've waded out beyond the shore, our feet tickled by the lapping of salty water. The boy's excitement fades when they realize no sea creatures live in this tide pool.

I encourage them not to lose hope. "Be patient, if you stand still long enough, the sea creatures won't be scared from the vibrations of your feet. They'll venture out again."

I'm waiting for my youngest to fall asleep, for my sourdough starter to rise, for our own home and not the rental that feels like a loaned library book. I'm waiting for springtime, so I can buy caterpillars and watch them turn into butterflies. I'm waiting for my husband's schedule to firm up, so we can fill our calendar with trips again.

From where I'm sitting now, I'm waiting, not so patiently, for words to appear on my blank page. For my tea to cool down a bit so I can sip it. As if the soothing effect of the tea will calm my mind enough to write something meaningful.

I hear my son practicing piano, the rough tink, tink, tink of his long fingers bouncing staccato, legato, allegretto rhythms across the ivory keys. Today, unlike many other days, he is not so frustrated with his own efforts. He is waiting to master a scale, a piece of work, for his lesson to be over so he can get back to playing Legos.

One night recently my son whispers to me across the sheets of his bed, "God, doesn't answer my prayers Mommy. I want to be a better listener, and I've prayed about it, but nothings changed. I still get in trouble for arguing instead of listening."

And this idea of waiting becomes a mindset, a discipline, a practice in letting go.