Waiting

A lot of life is spent waiting. For news. The hard work to pay off. For the chips you didn’t eat to tip the scales in the opposite direction.

 

In its most positive form, the one we teach our kids during the inevitable sideline moments, waiting is a rite of passage wrapped decoratively in words like patience and faith.

In its less glamorous form, waiting looks like a whole lotta nothing, especially to those of us who find ourselves entering, quitting, then re-entering “the busy pageant” where worth is assigned by the lack of time and attention, we pay to ourselves and each other. In that competitive circuit, looking out the window, re-reading a favorite book, binge-watching horrible TV is efficiently labeled as unmotivated and lazy.

 

But what if the highly motivated, productive people and the slovenly, wandering daydreamers share more DNA than the piano teachers of our youth led us to believe? 

 

What if…

 

The infuriating nature of waiting was THE common experience that united everyone—the extroverts and introverts, the agreeable and disagreeable, the neurotic and blasé, even (stay with me here) the democrats AND republicans!

 

What if people in fast forward alongside their idling counterparts, joined idiosyncrasies to create a new brand of waiting? This emerging practice could be known as Effective Waiting and defined as: the harmonious balance of pause and productivity. The practice would be integrated into K-12 curriculums. And humans would receive master’s degrees in waiting from lauded universities. Then, Effective Waiting would become THE top ten trait of highly successful AND completely average people!

 

Until slowly, over a lot of time spent waiting, Effective Waiting would become ineffective. And a new generation of waiters would necessarily emerge and once again unite over the mind-numbing, life-sucking, you-have-got-to-be-kidding-me nature of…

 

“Thanks for waiting, your call is important to us. Please stay on the line for the next available representative.”

 

Waiting. 

 

What if…

 

NOW WHAT? Wandering At The Edge (of 50)

The day my youngest son began kindergarten, I invited a group of friends—my coveted playgroup—over for coffee. I had the whole morning timed out perfectly.

 

Will would get on the bus, I’d hit brew on the coffee maker, lay out the beautiful new mugs purchased just for this occasion, add muffins, and voila! The makings of a milestone morning surrounded by the people who’d helped me through sleepless nights, potty training, and deciding that the scootch crawl was developmentally okay.

 

There was only one problem. After Will got on the bus, I promptly went to our bedroom, with my husband following closely behind, and fell apart. I still recall the look on his face—the visible confusion about what I was attempting to process. 

 

“Now what?” I asked.

 

“I thought you were having the girls over for coffee?” he said.

 

Omg. Did he really think I literally meant “now what?” as in like this exact moment? How could he not feel the enormity? We were at the precipice of all that had come before and all that would come next. Both of our sons were out in the world, spending as much of their waking day with other people as they did with us—with me. 

 

And to be clear I was the one emotionally dangling, not Will. He’d gotten on the bus willingly, with his too-big backpack of favorite books and snacks. And he’d be home in three short hours. Kindergarten was still a half-day proposition back then. 

 

I tried again, to have my angst validated as my first guests arrived. “I can’t believe he’s in kindergarten. Now what?”

 

A parent who’d already been through the paces said simply, “That takes a while. Today just drink coffee.”

 

Just drink coffee? Interesting perspective—and not that different than Rob’s, just a little less annoying because it was coming from a girlfriend.

 

The larger point which well over a decade later, I now understand, is that any one day, is just a day. Being the mom of a kindergartner is not that different than being the mom of a kindergartener minus one day. But it is very different than being the mom of a newborn. 

 

On day one when I gazed at my startled, hairy, handsome son—kindergarten might as well have been the moon.

 

And on that same day, at thirty-two, the thought of turning fifty was…well…definitely not a thought. I had more important things to do than age. But it happened anyway. 

 

Are you metaphorically with me here?

 

If my own personal movie trailer could have prepped me, on that day, for the next eighteen years, I’d have thought…that’s a lot and pretty great. I also would have been prematurely exhausted and confused. 

 

Life generally makes more sense in rewind. 

 

I know how lucky I am. To be here, getting older, contemplating twilights. I now appreciate that what comes next won’t magically sort itself out on a random day commemorating the number of times I’ve rotated around the sun.  

 

And I also now fully embrace that it’s human nature—or at least my nature—to want milestone days to feel monumental. Which is why I’ve stocked up on coffee. And wine. 

 

For Now

Last summer was a blur…a weepy, sticky haze of emotion. With my oldest just graduating from high school, a global pandemic finally in the rearview (psych!), and my impending reality as a half-empty nester— pride, relief, and fear overlapped like a rubber band ball ready to snap.

 

Except in the garden. 

 

Last season was the first year, I cut the fluff. All that remained were the essentials. 

 

Flowers—for cutting in heaping arrangements.

Tomatoes—for many batches of my ceremonial sauce.

Herbs—because they make everything better.

 

Out with the squash.

Only dabbled in peppers.

And the addition of a wildflower border in the back!

 

It was pure joy even if, as usual, by early August the entire garden blended with the wildflowers. Weeds have their own degree of beauty; I now comfortably rationalize.

 

Then—with the swiftness of a first winter storm, late August moved in. Dorm prep was in full motion and there was finally freedom to fly away on vacation with the fam before we were down a member. Serendipity left me ill-prepared for what came next. 

Covid quarantine. We were among the first Delta variant alumni to utter, “Us? No. We’re vaccinated.” Such idyllic times.

 

Through those strange, strange days of disbelief and dread, it was the zinnias and tomatoes that kept me sane.

 

A friend with proximity to medical advice, fielded truly delirious questions like: “If I make sauce, and freeze it, is there any chance that when we defrost it months later that we’ll get Covid?” And “Is there any chance of me giving Covid to my neighbors while outside picking flowers?”

 

I am indebted to her decisive and empathetic emojis. 

 

As abundant offers emerged for staples like soup, beverages, reading material, supplements, and the coveted oximeter (much more effective than panic in reading oxygen levels btw), I’d text: pick some zinnias and tomatoes! Scissors on the garbage can! 

Last Summer's Haul

Then, I’d add a paranoid quip like: “Don’t worry, I wore gloves when I took them out there!”

 

I find humor to be a highly effective delusion-masking tool.

 

It was an unusual period. Add in that we sent the boys away to their grandparents' cottage because as the kind CDC woman put it, “If they haven’t gotten it by now, they’re safer out of the house.”  Just what every parent mourning her child about to leave for college wants to hear.

Still…as bursts of energy emerged…

 

I made batches and batches of sauce.

Flooded the house with flowers.

Fielded fun pictures from friends enjoying their zinnias and tomatoes.

 

What a colorful, juicy contradiction last summer was. Happy running alongside fear, with gratitude the ever-present assist. 

 

This year, summer’s middle is fast approaching, and I don’t yet have a descriptive. It’s too early to label this full, yet quiet, (where am I?) time. 

 

Except in the garden. In there, the flowers, tomatoes, and herbs are popping alongside the mostly manageable weeds. Harbingers of a beautiful August. 

 

Thankfully, it’s always summer—in the garden. And that’s enough, for now. 

This Summer, So Far...

Either Way

Having a Daisy means twice daily walks. 

 

Fortunately, I love being outside and I adore my dog but not all days are created equal. Some are jam-packed with obligation, others bursting with snow, still others are teeming with lazy. Doesn’t matter, Daisy needs to walk.

 

We have our familiar routes. The short, the medium, and the long with the “wooded” jaunt mixed in. You would think being the human in this equation that I would control which path we take. That would be too simplistic a conclusion.

 

Daisy has a decidedly determined nature. She is not easily taken off-task.

 

When we get to the milestones, the obvious decision points where Daisy knows left means long and right means short, if she doesn’t agree with my decision, she plants her behind on the sidewalk and motions with her neck to say, “This way.” 

 

She’s so darned cute and stubborn. 

 

Most days she nudges me toward the larger loop—which means more exercise and fresh air for both of us. Occasionally, I pull rank with a “Nope, not today” when work or dinner or new episodes of Ozark are calling.

 

Whichever route we take, I never return home thinking, “Wish that walk was shorter!” It’s always the other way around. 

 

As motivating as Daisy is to get me outside and moving, she is the opposite when it come to my writing. In that process, she is my…detractor, preventor, saboteur.

 

The warm snuggler that begs me to hit the snooze button again. The tap, tapper, wanting me to play or go for a walk. It takes willpower to say no to that face. 

But I mostly do because Daisy isn’t the only one with stubborn as a character trait.

 

Words and I have a mutually beneficial relationship. After tossing them around for any length of time, I’m happier, more content, energized. And the world makes loads more sense to me.

 

That said, I am, as the writing community calls us, a “pantser” which means that while I have a general idea of where the story is going, the characters give me the details. I fly by the seat of their pants as I write.

 

Unlike the tried-and-true routes that Daisy and I have carved out for our daily walks, storytelling necessitates taking unknown paths—ones filled with heartbreak and possibility. Not knowing what will happen next is exhilarating.

 

Until it’s time for editing. That’s when we—the characters and me—must sort out if we like where they landed or if there is a more genuine destination. 

 

Editing usually feels like walking in circles looking for potholes that go deeper, then clawing my way out alongside my characters, the whole time wondering…do we always have to go the long way? It’s a fraught process.

 

And just as I am about to throw my hands up and stare off into space wondering, “Why?”

 

Daisy comes tap, tapping and it’s my moment to decide. 

 

Keep going in here or out there?

 

Luckily, either way I win.