It’s stupid, this thing where I circle the blank page as if it’s an enemy – why? This is easier than climbing back on a bicycle, this is nothing. I can put my fingers on these keys and watch the tune emerge in seconds. So, here I am, tickling the ebonies on a frosty Tuesday night at the end of February; trying to figure out what to tell you, why such an incredible change in my reality isn’t full of more interesting anecdotes and observations. The answer isn’t hard: waiting is waiting, whether you do it in the southern or northern hemisphere, it’s the same. Before I was waiting to come here, now I’m waiting to find out what it is I’m meant to do here. So: waiting.
The chief differences are domestic and circumstantial: I went from keeping myself occupied in my own uninterrupted space to keeping myself occupied in a vital and busy household, so major adjustment required on that score. Which is good, it’s exactly what I need before I venture out into the workplace. I went from sometimes living on toast and crackers because I didn’t feel like cooking to planned meals, which is precisely what I need. Most important: from living like a selfish hermit, jealous of my time, I’m now surrounded by people – for which I’m grateful.
And there it is.
I’m like the trees in this garden, their tiny buds emerging, but slowly, slowly – all waiting for the signal that spring is really sprung before they unfurl. The young cherry tree at the front door went too fast and its half-unfurled leaves have browned and tattered in the suddenly icy weather, but the older trees are waiting. It’s taken me a lifetime to learn how, now, like them, I’m waiting.
(image from BoredPanda)