Waiting

"How much of human life is lost in waiting." - Ralph Waldo Emerson

Lately we've been doing a lot of waiting.

Waiting for the next payday.
Waiting for various and sundry checks to clear our new bank.
Waiting for my sister to deliver her baby.
Waiting for friends to return from travel.
Waiting for the opportunity to fix this and that around the house.
Waiting for inspiration.
Waiting for some guidance when it comes to various decisions.
Waiting for the right moment to share bad news.
Waiting for return phone calls.
Waiting for the car's computer to reset sufficiently that it will pass emissions testing.
Waiting for business hours.
Waiting for the end of business hours.
Waiting for news.
Waiting for rain.
Waiting for the temperatures outside to drop.
Waiting for the meteor shower.
Waiting for that feeling to go away.
Waiting for new opportunities.

Waiting. Always waiting.

Waiting isn't all bad. I imagine that waiting, which fixes its eyes on some nebulous future, is marginally better than guilt or nostalgia, which linger in the shadows of what was and what could have been. Waiting exists in the realm of possibility and promise, and so long as it doesn't turn to worry or dread, it's neutral if not hopeful. Still, it's so easy to get stuck in what feels like suspended animation while we wait for things small and big. It's easy to get stuck, riveted on a far-away eventuality, and miss the things that don't require waiting -- the things that are here and now.

We lay in bed reading last night until most of the neighbors had put out their lights. Then we went outside, armed with a flashlight and our eyes, to watch for the Perseid meteor shower. As usual, the mosquitoes that thrive in the dampness of the stream behind the house gathered like the outcasts of human society descending on the LA Union Rescue Mission at Thanksgiving: in droves, prepared to feast. I became occupied with craning my neck until it hurt to look toward the largest expanse of sky not obscured by the dark outlines of trees or spoiled by electric lights and wondering if that little tickle (now on my face, now on my leg, now on my arm, now on my neck...) was just one of the normal feelings of being heightened by vague expectation of a bite or an indication that the human buffet was open for business. Dan settled down on his back on the deck. I sat by him and leaned back, a bit too afraid of what was crawling on the wood of the deck to feel comfortable digging in.

We were outside for several minutes, eyes to the grey-black heavens. Our waiting was rewarded by a single streak of silvery light across the dark expanse. But in the moments of anticipation before we saw the meteor, and in the moments that followed, when we hoped to see another, I realized that there was something to be said for what was there in the under-appreciated present. Perhaps we didn't see shooting stars, but we did see hundreds and thousands of stars -- the same stars that have given navigators their bearings for centuries. The same stars that gave human imagination a bear, a warrior and countless omens for good and for ill. The same stars that provide the backdrop of predictability that showcases the brilliance of change. Perhaps we didn't see shooting stars, but we had each other there in the stillness. We had reasons to laugh. We had delight in simply being -- and in being there together.

"How much of life is wasted in waiting..." Only the waiting that is devoid of appreciation of the beauty of the present. The rest of waiting is a gift. It's a chance to slow down and see that sameness that gives change its brilliance. It's the backdrop of constancy that makes a shooting star so magnificent to behold.