It seems that the holiday season is just upon us and I hope that wherever you are, you are surrounded by the people who love you. A few days ago I departed for my family’s home. Two buses and a very delayed train ride later, I find myself at the house that I grew up in.
There is something about traveling that gives insight into the true nature of a person.
For instance, your train is delayed for two hours, you only have a sandwich to hold you over for those two hours plus the length of your actual trip and your stomach is already nagging you for food. I found myself in this position in my journey home and at first fought with every grumpy cell in my body to stay grumpy. It is hard to be delighted to know that the trip that you are most looking forward to has been postponed. On the other hand, it is out of your control.
No whining, no complaining, no foot stomping, no moaning, nothing that you could possibly do would help the situation.
Come to think of it, a little life lesson is hiding there in the underbrush of your almost temper tantrum. There are things that we want, things that we want to know, want to have, want to see, want to be, etc. that will come with time. Each and every minute brings you a little closer to the person who you were born to be, the world that you were born to see, the lovely things in your life are planned just so.
Waiting is tiresome and often wearisome.
It is a land of complete limbo. What I have learned is that there are ways to enjoy the waiting. As a twenty something, it seems that my entire life has been a waiting game. Waiting for schooling to be completed, waited to be old enough to enroll in this program, waiting to hear back from potential employers, waiting for a potential love to bloom, waiting for a marriage, waiting for a home of my own, waiting to be financially secure. Waiting, waiting, waiting.
It is unavoidable, so might as well become well-versed in the art of waiting.
Above all I have learned (and be sure, reader, that the lessons that I have undergone have been painful and marked by tears and tantrums, no where in this blog do I ever claim to have the grace of a saint) that waiting is the perfect time to work on yourself.
The way I see it is that we are all born books. Some of us are born paperbacks, whose covers are easily torn and easily damaged, while others are born with strong sturdy spines of hardcovers. Neither group is set in their ways, for time can change either condition. We start with a couple of pages that contain the same information as everyone else, name, gender, birth date, parents, etc. We are born with the infrastructure of our stories. It is up to us, each our own hero or heroine in our own novel, to add more pages and more depth to our story. We create ourselves. We write ourselves.
These moments of waiting are out of our control, but our stories, reader, our glorious stories are all our own. Our selves, our books, are there to be cultivated always, but greatly come in handy when our world is as rocky as the seas in Melville’s Moby Dick.
Let’s knit, create, write, sing, cook, draw, paint, run, collage, make mosaics, photograph, model, read, breath, study, learn, listen, befriend, care, eat, drink, smile, laugh, solve puzzles, blog, write letters, watch films, make films, in our times of waiting for in our times of waiting we find our true selves.