Waiting Place Redefined
Back in January 2013, I spoke about a state I called the waiting place. At the time, this is how I defined it:
But here I am, over a year later, enjoying what I'm doing, and I'm back to a point I could just as easily (and probably more appropriately) call my waiting place. I find that in addition to all the tasks I accomplish each day, I'm also waiting on so many aspects of my life: I'm waiting to hear back from Annie Bomke as to whether or not she would like more of my manuscript pages. I'm waiting to get word from the Great Dane Rescue office to see if we can proceed with a pet adoption. I'm waiting to find out if my short story will be published in an online journal. I'm waiting for return phone calls, and emails, and letters.
And if I really want to wax poetic about my waiting place, I can include all of the mundane waiting that occurs each and every week (which, truthfully, isn't poetic at all). Waiting for the laundry to tumble in the dryer, the kids to scramble into the car, the dishwasher to clean up the dishes, and the sun to rise so that my day (of waiting) can begin again. My life is a never-ending cycle of waiting. Really.
Well, in case you haven't noticed, I'm not very good at waiting. I've spoken before about being patient, and how very hard it is for me to simply be in the moment sometimes. Especially when I have a bunch of business that won't be wrapped up at the end of the day. My musings on this topic made me realize something very important. The waiting place is mine. It is what I want it to be and clearly, it can be redefined. Which means that I can find within it anything I want to, even an overabundance of patience.
That's that plan, folks. To fill my waiting place with so much patience it becomes a sanctuary for me. You're all welcome there.
For me, it is the the buffered mountainside, the comfort zone, or simply, the existing state. It is there that I can sit without really living, going about my business because I have to, but not truly enjoying what I am doing. Sometimes, that waiting place is fraught with anxiety, or I might experience plenty of emotions without really feeling any of them at all. But the place is warm and comfortable. Things could be better or worse, but at least I know and understand all that rests inside the boundaries of the waiting place.
But here I am, over a year later, enjoying what I'm doing, and I'm back to a point I could just as easily (and probably more appropriately) call my waiting place. I find that in addition to all the tasks I accomplish each day, I'm also waiting on so many aspects of my life: I'm waiting to hear back from Annie Bomke as to whether or not she would like more of my manuscript pages. I'm waiting to get word from the Great Dane Rescue office to see if we can proceed with a pet adoption. I'm waiting to find out if my short story will be published in an online journal. I'm waiting for return phone calls, and emails, and letters.
And if I really want to wax poetic about my waiting place, I can include all of the mundane waiting that occurs each and every week (which, truthfully, isn't poetic at all). Waiting for the laundry to tumble in the dryer, the kids to scramble into the car, the dishwasher to clean up the dishes, and the sun to rise so that my day (of waiting) can begin again. My life is a never-ending cycle of waiting. Really.
Well, in case you haven't noticed, I'm not very good at waiting. I've spoken before about being patient, and how very hard it is for me to simply be in the moment sometimes. Especially when I have a bunch of business that won't be wrapped up at the end of the day. My musings on this topic made me realize something very important. The waiting place is mine. It is what I want it to be and clearly, it can be redefined. Which means that I can find within it anything I want to, even an overabundance of patience.
That's that plan, folks. To fill my waiting place with so much patience it becomes a sanctuary for me. You're all welcome there.
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