THE WEIGHT OF WAITING

Photo by Daniel Nebreda from Pixabay

I’m waiting.

Waiting for change,

waiting to feel absolute in my certainty.

I live in a place where the predictably

of seasons changing happens

in somewhat equal distribution

when paced on my calendar.

I love this.

I love that I live in a place where the transitions offer contrast—

where you can measure your time and your expansion

in increments that make sense.

There is comfort in this sense

of change and in the certainty

I feel in my body.

This year, though, I feel as unreliable in my certainty as my surroundings.

Hot doesn’t move to cold. Hot stays hot and cold doesn’t come— not really.

I think it’s coming and then I am tricked. Just as I think my certainty is returning and it doesn’t.

Mother Nature glances and a momentary coolness settles, only to be supplanted by the hot again.

And I’m waiting.

Waiting in an almost constant state of transition—the once reliable markers of change

now (seemingly and irrevocably) unpredictable.

This leaves me with an absence of closure and an abundance of anticipation.

Waiting.

Waiting to start. Waiting to rest. Waiting to feel. Waiting to allow. Waiting to release.

Waiting.

There is a tension in my body—as if it has been stretched beyond its current abilities—

and I am struggling to lengthen myself to fit this new way of being.

Contrast and constraint allow clear choices and space. Space I can’t find in this stretched body.

Space to breathe once the choice has been made.

But this grayness of stretching into so many possibilities leaves me exhausted.

Pulled to the point of tension.

Pulled (almost) to breaking.

And so, I wait.

I wait to feel the space and comfortable length I knew

before craving the new.

It doesn’t make sense to wait, to measure my gate, and yet—still—

I stretch and allow and—still—find myself with the weight of waiting.

What will it take for me to renounce—no, to release—the weight of waiting?

Just one thing: time.

Photo by Daniel Nebreda from Pixabay