I remember a band called The Waiting. Didn't actually know their music, but I knew their name and the cover of one of their albums. It was vintage-- a woman in a long pencil skirt, wearing a small hat and gloves, waiting at a train station. She had her luggage about her feet and was focused on reading a letter. Over her head snowflakes had begun to fall.
I think I only saw that cover once, years ago, but in my head it's still the illustration of waiting, every time.
I hate waiting. I hate waiting in traffic, waiting for a response, waiting for the next big thing. Especially when it strikes without warning. Life is running along and blam, there you are, in a hat and gloves wondering how you got there. And after a while with no train, you wonder what all the waiting is for.
Waiting is always winter. No matter what life surrounds you, waiting makes it cold and un-inviting, lying fallow because you don't have that one thing you're waiting for. Not that I always know what that one thing is. But the effect is the same. Sometimes you're waiting for an answer and the fear is that no will be pronounced and your heart will break and you may as well get it over with now. But you can't. Because as hard as your heart tries to break itself, it can't really go bust while hope sits there, perched at once like a lark and a raven.
I think the waiting is necessary and, in the long run, good. It doesn't mitigate my abhorrence, but instead of trying to distract myself from the waiting, I try to enjoy the winter. Because no matter what I'm waiting for, there's plenty to be had in the moment.
This isn't necessarily a waiting moment for me, but it may be prep time. It has its similarities. I guess I'm always waiting for something, even in the busy seasons. If I have to wait, I'd like to know I've waited well.
I think I only saw that cover once, years ago, but in my head it's still the illustration of waiting, every time.
I hate waiting. I hate waiting in traffic, waiting for a response, waiting for the next big thing. Especially when it strikes without warning. Life is running along and blam, there you are, in a hat and gloves wondering how you got there. And after a while with no train, you wonder what all the waiting is for.
Waiting is always winter. No matter what life surrounds you, waiting makes it cold and un-inviting, lying fallow because you don't have that one thing you're waiting for. Not that I always know what that one thing is. But the effect is the same. Sometimes you're waiting for an answer and the fear is that no will be pronounced and your heart will break and you may as well get it over with now. But you can't. Because as hard as your heart tries to break itself, it can't really go bust while hope sits there, perched at once like a lark and a raven.
I think the waiting is necessary and, in the long run, good. It doesn't mitigate my abhorrence, but instead of trying to distract myself from the waiting, I try to enjoy the winter. Because no matter what I'm waiting for, there's plenty to be had in the moment.
This isn't necessarily a waiting moment for me, but it may be prep time. It has its similarities. I guess I'm always waiting for something, even in the busy seasons. If I have to wait, I'd like to know I've waited well.
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