What you do with time
is what a grandmother clock
does with it: strike twelve
and take its time doing it.
You’re the clock: time passes,
you remain. And wait.
(From: “Mother,” by Kurt Brown)
I admit it. Waiting is something I don’t do well, whether I’m waiting in line in at airport security, for an appointment in a doctor’s office, a ticket at the movie theater, or, as has been the case for the past few weeks, on my daughter, whose perpetually last-minute style is even more pronounced as she juggles dressing herself and her six month old daughter. Despite giving her all the help I can, much of my time during the holiday season has been punctuated by trying to tame my impatience, the restless tapping of my foot, as I wait to go somewhere together with my daughter and granddaughter.
In Worcester, Massachusetts,
I went with Aunt Consuelo
to keep her dentist’s appointment
and sat and waited for her
in the dentist’s waiting room.
(From “In the Waiting Room,” by Elizabeth Bishop)
Waiting. We seem to always be waiting for something to happen, and we’ve done it most of our lives. Remember how eagerly you waited on Christmas eve, hoping to catch a glimpse of Santa? Or that first crush you had on a boy or girl, waiting and hoping they might notice you? Ironically, as an expectant mother, I waited for my overdue daughter to be born, the one who continues to keep me waiting today. But waiting is something that sometimes seems to dominate an entire day of my life. I’ve sat in restaurants or stood in subway stations waiting for loved ones or friends, and waited on the sidewalk as my dog relieves himself. I’ve thumbed through outdated magazines and checked my watch a dozen times, waiting for an appointment scheduled for an hour earlier. I’ve waited for calls or letters from loved ones, for acceptances to schools, and results of dozens of medical tests.
I’ve waited with hope; I’ve waited with dread, but all too often, I’ve waited impatiently, unable to concentrate on anything but the waiting, a trait inherited from my father, whose impatience was manifested in the nervous twitch of his foot, his fingers drumming quietly on the kitchen table, or the constant flick of his cigarette in an ashtray while he waited for someone (usually my mother) or something to happen.
Some days will be rainy and you will sit waiting
And the letter you wait for won’t come,
And I will sit watching the sky tear off gray and gray
And the letter I wait for won’t come.
(From “Caboose Thoughts,” by Carl Sandburg)
It does no good to pace the hallway or sit at the table, foot tapping restlessly, willing something or someone to speed up. Time—and events—move as they will. If I allow impatience to be my master, then how much of life have I failed to notice?
I said to my soul, be still, and wait without hope
For hope would be hope for the wrong thing; wait without love
For love would be love of the wrong thing; there is yet faith
But the faith and the love and the hope are all in the waiting.
(From “The Four Quartets,” by T.S. Eliot)
The faith and the love and the hope are … in the waiting. These words make me reconsider why life makes us wait. I am still learning, even after all these years, to accept what I cannot control, to let things unfold as they will, even if it’s as simple as waiting for my daughter to meet me at the door and say, “I’m ready to go now.”
Starting here, what do you want to remember?
How sunlight creeps along a shining floor?
What scent of old wood hovers, what softened
sound from outside fills the air?
Will you ever bring a better gift for the world
than the breathing respect that you carry
wherever you go right now? Are you waiting
for time to show you some better thoughts?
(From: “You Reading This, Be Ready,” by William Stafford)
What do you wait for? When has waiting kept you from noticing, from appreciating those small moments of beauty that Stafford describes? Do you remember a particular time when your life seemed to be consumed by waiting? Write about waiting.
