On Waiting

In which we prepare the soil

This red-bellied woodpecker is the stuff of dreams

The past few days I have been feeling a little lost, unfettered, and wild. The lilac blossoms are fading in the vase on the kitchen table, a memory of Easter. When the afternoon sun shines through the window their rich scent is warmed to life again, thick and breathing, and I can almost cup it in my hands. Lately, I only want to be outside—to breathe in all that sighs and groans. I want to wake with the sun and sleep under the stars, dew and lilac perfume on my skin. Somewhere, deep in the woods, the doe beds down on a moss-covered thicket; the wood thrush sings her flutelike song. Don’t such things require a witness?

I think, mostly, it is time.

There is never enough and I hate feeling rushed. On my days off, I want to write and read and watch the birds and catch up with friends and get caught up on housework and take long walks and move at a pace this old body finds comfortable. Before I even get out of bed I am filled with dread for all the beautiful things I want to do.

To listen to this post (and Bonnie snoring):

This morning, when Bonnie woke me up, I was dreaming about birds. Dozens of red-bellied woodpeckers gathered in one tree, launching and landing and delighting my eyes. I was trying to sleep in a little, I’ve been so tired lately. But on the edge of my consciousness was Bonnie and she wanted me up. I was aware of her sneezy-faced presence, her waggling butt, as I watched the birds with one eye. In the end, she won out—she is my little creature, after all, and she likes company when she eats her breakfast. So, I lumbered down the stairs to make the coffee.

The lilacs on the kitchen table are still hanging in there

When I looked out the window, there was a little white-throated sparrow on the birdbath. This is the longest into breeding season I have known them to stay. I can’t say I mind at all. The little one took flight, and I saw the bath needed cleaned and filled with new water. The maples are shedding their tassels everywhere and they color the water brown quickly. The seed feeders also needed filling so I pulled a jacket on over my robe and stepped into my boots to do the jobs. As I worked, I talked to the birds, as I always do. A Carolina chickadee scolded me from a high branch. Do not worry, I told him. This won’t take long. I know they have checked out all my nesting boxes but I’m not sure which one they settled on. Maybe later I will peek through to find out. As I packed suet into the tube feeders, I remembered my plan to put out my hummingbird feeder today. A ruby-throated was sighted in a neighboring county and I want to be prepared. April is the month they traditionally arrive here. There was a thick frost on the grass, so I decided to wait until it warms up to ready that sweet welcome. It’s supposed to be a beautiful day, and I want somehow to enjoy it, despite all the things on my to-do list.

Sometimes the waiting can feel unbearable. Waiting for warblers and hummingbirds, waiting to see my boys, waiting for answers to hard questions about fiscal health and health insurance, waiting on wars and rising gasoline prices.

I thought of how quickly things can change, how quickly the years have flown. I thought about the ways we wait for certain milestones, how it never feels quite like we thought it would when they arrive. Somewhere over the years of Bible study, I remember learning one of the Hebrew words used in the Old Testament for “wait”: qavah. It means, “bind together.” As in the twisting of strands, like when rope is made.

Yes, this is what waiting does. It binds us together.

I thought about this as I sprinkled seed along the edge of the flower bed.

The morning light came, sweet and pure. I didn’t know I’d been waiting for this particular quality of light—the warm of the sun buttering the coming day. I didn’t know I was waiting for it until it came.

Last night, when we took Bonnie down our street for a short walk—night whispering all around us—the neighbor children ran bare-armed and barefooted through their yard. In their fast-churning legs I found a memory of younger springs, the cool scent of night settling into skin and dew-soaked grass between naked toes.

I am thinking about planting. My raised beds sleep, dreams of embracing leafy greens and plump fruit. The heart swells with love at the thought. Isn’t every act of hospitality an act of love? When I feed the earth with seeds I feel the gratitude of the soil. What better way to give than to cultivate the earth? It’s a hard thing, to shift the gaze outward when the news of the day is filled with an urgency to think only of myself, about the next need. But more and more I hear God calling me to this. Shift your eyes, Laura, he says. Plant the seeds. I don’t mind the planting so much as the time it takes to nurture; this waiting.

I can feel the moments passing braid my being into one with this little patch of earth, this little community, this waiting life of mine. So I offer up my heart like soft clay. I don’t know what the kiln will yield. But this surrender feels like running through the liquid air of a soft spring evening, bare-armed and shoeless.

Wild and full of hope.