The roots of waiting

So many of my years are spent waiting for something.

Cross section of a trees’ roots

When I was younger, it was this very Christmas season I waited for, with greed and avarice unabashed. Then, finals, finals, finals – and graduation!


A wedding date, an answer to a job interview, a nine-month waist increase…a birth!

Repeat, repeat, repeat.

The waiting has taught me patience of a sort, yet tonight I wonder: could I have done it better? Could I possibly have focused on the present good to be done- rather than some arbitrary and often immoveable expectation?

When we first moved to this house, I hated it. I hated the house, so close to disinterested neighbors, the city (if you could call it that), the insipid weather, the whole kit-and-kaboodle. I waited to return to my beloved mountain town, my neighbor-turned-best-friend, my quiet streets. I knew this was wrong – hating something that much gives it control over you, rather than the peace I seek. Despite that knowing, I struggled for years to grit my teeth with acceptance.

I became especially bitter during yard work: our expensive HOA requires a "weed-free" yard, an impossible undertaking for those without cement surroundings. As I angrily mowed the yard one day, I found a vagrant tree-sprout near the back wall. I cut it down. Months later, it had returned. Repeat cutting motions.

Today, six years later, I notice its leaves covering my bathroom window.

And if I had taken a different course with my move? If I, like the small sprout, had dug deep and determined to live here as gratefully as I could, would I also have flourished here, six years later? Would my wait have produced leaves and roots?

I can only tell myself:

Repeat gratefulness.

Repeat with determination.

Repeat until roots anchor.

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