I will never forget the summer of my 18th year when I moved to the beach to live with my brother in the sleepy little town of Manteo, North Carolina. We occupied a rambling old turn-of-the-century house with cracks and creaks and bats that got in through the woodstove. It was primitive and magical.
My days were spent either on the beach slathered in baby oil or working at The Island Art Gallery and Christmas Shop where I sold Christmas ornaments and fine art to tourists from New York.
At 5 pm, however, I’d take off my apron, hop into my little red truck, and hurry over the Causeway to the Pea Island Wildlife Refuge. There I would sit alone on a dock in the middle of the marsh, waiting for the sun to go down.
I always took my journal. Sometimes I wrote poetry. Often I would just sit. And watch. And wait.
I remember feeling a tinge of sadness as I cheered the sun to its resting place. The day was now officially over. What had I accomplished? What had I neglected? What did I regret?
You wait, wait, wait, and then–poof! Like those sunsets, the waiting is over and the thing you have waited so long for has either been realized or eluded your grasp.
So what’s to be learned then?
Waiting, as difficult as it is, should be a time for reflection and preparation.
What am I learning about myself while I wait? Am I content living “in the tension”? Or am I restless? Impatient?
Am I wasting today worrying about what might, or might not, happen tomorrow? Or am I growing (emotionally, spiritually, creatively) so that, whatever the outcome, I can look back and see my time of waiting as a gift?
Once more I find myself in a period of waiting. Waiting for a creative break. For a paradigm shift. For a man whose heart sings to my own.
This time I am determined not to waste the wait. This time I will grasp that moment of breathtaking beauty just before the sun slips behind the horizon. And I will hold on tight.
At least until a new day dawns.
Lovely thoughtful words Laura. I agree with you. Sometimes I need space in my life and to do nothing – just for a while. And life changes and off I go again.
I’m captured, captivated, spellbound, holding my breath, waiting…for you to put more of your thoughts to paper…and for me….for me to practice waiting without wiggling out of my skin.
Thank you for your kind words! Wish I had more time to blog . . . working on that. 🙂 Waiting is hard and something we can all relate to, so why not encourage each other in the process? A big fan of your Twitter posts & blog. Take care. All the best, Laura
Waiting….this thought process was all I could think about as my car exited I-44 in Joplin, Missouri on May 29th. I had seen the devastation of the EF5 tornado on the news, now I was here to help—volunteering for tornado relief.
I had driven 1100 miles from Vienna, Virginia and did it non-stop, I could not wait to arrive and help. Having been a past resident of Missouri and a storm chaser, this was the place I had to be. I had seen tornado damage numerous other times, but nothing prepared me for what was in Joplin. What I witnessed cannot be put into words—video and pictures don’t do it justice. For miles in every direction homes were flattened, not a few, but 7000. Department stores such as Home Depot and Wal-Mart were in ruins. Wrecked cars the tens of thousands were strewn everywhere in twisted contortions, it resembled a Hollywood movie set, only this was no movie– this was real. Then I saw the lines.
People, young and old, of every color and creed, waiting in line—for water. Water is a simple thing, just turn your tap and there it is, not for Joplin, Missouri. Waiting would be there “new normal”. Waiting for water, waiting for food, waiting for fresh clothes, waiting for the rebuilding (which will take a decade or more), waiting for hope.
When I walked amongst the carnage I thought of one thing, “Is what I am spending most of my time on able to be wiped out by a tornado, or is it lasting?” So much hangs in a balance. Imagine living in the same home for 50 years, and all we can find for this widow is one picture—just one photo of her deceased husband amidst the ruins of her home. Where do you start over, how do you recalibrate? She smiled at us amidst her tears and said, “My treasures are not on this Earth.” Wow.
When I left Joplin I was sobbing, I felt helpless leaving these people and going back to my peaceful home in Vienna, Virginia. However, the community of Joplin taught me a valuables lesson—the things worth waiting for are not what most of us think.
John
PS: Laura, your blogs are impeccable. I don’t subscribe to many, (Seth Godin, Dan Pink, and now yours).
Wow, John, I am in tears. Thank you for sharing this beautiful, heartfelt story with me. Yes, our real treasures are not those we stockpile in this life. They are comprised of our significant relationships (family, friends and those whose lives we touch in some way), the use of our God-given talents, and those eternal fruits which will not rust or fade away (or be swept or blown away). Thank you for that poignant reminder, which I so needed today. Bless you, friend, and thank you for following. What an honor. Laura