I was waiting for something

to arrive. I didn’t know what.

Something buoyed, something

sun knocked. I placed my palms

up, little pads of butter, expecting.

From Jane Wong’s “The Waiting“

I don’t wait well. Waiting is uncomfortable. It’s scary. It’s powerless. It’s slow. It’s patient. It’s deliberate. It’s virtuous.

A part of me feels like waiting is saying no in a world where we are asked to say yes. Another part of me feels like waiting is discernment and understanding. Another part of me feels like waiting is too closely aligned with fear and paralysis. Another part of me views waiting as an excuse to get out of doing things I do not want to do. Another part of me is skeptical that good things only come to those who wait. Another part of me connects waiting with making good decisions. Another part of me thinks about opportunities we miss when we wait.

Waiting is anticipating celebrations, looking for signs, and changing seasons. Waiting is weighing and judging, setting goals and training toward them, and stopping and starting. Waiting is when the sun peaks over the horizon, breathing in and out, and the moment before you jump.

It is easy to spend our lives waiting for something. The perfect [fill in the blank.] The wisdom of waiting is balance and measure — part of the falling apart and coming together. That is where waiting meets awareness. I will probably always be uncomfortable waiting. As much as I try to follow all waiting’s rules, the need to hurry and rush lives in my bones. As much as I try to practice waiting, it is always the second or third thing I think about (especially during conflict.) Waiting is part of a wide-awake life, as much as paying attention, breathing deeply, and living gratefully.