It's misty and still on the river this morning. The new Spring green is still popping out of the trees in the ravine, giving that rocky chasm some youth. This time of year in the Texas Hill Country brings changing weather, and the bright sunshine I know is up above these low clouds is staying away. For now. It's cool, and damp, and lovely. There's a blue heron fishing the river, and lots of rippled rings from fish hitting the bugs on the surface. And there are birds out there, singing their wordless tunes they always sing. But it's mostly quiet. Seems like we're waiting.
That sense of waiting follows me around, and it's one that I have to turn toward, calling it out for the sneaky siren it is. How much of my life have I spent waiting? Years ago, waiting to fall in love. Waiting for children, Waiting to feel like I've arrived at some level of wisdom. Waiting to find my voice...
The only antidote for the waiting game is awareness. There is nothing new, no startling revelation from people smarter than me that spells out answers to the big questions in life. The ones that niggle at the edges of my awareness. The lessons I do keep learning, over and over as if they were prepared just for me to learn at this moment in time, those lessons are the ones I must be content with. That life is fleeting. That the only thing I control is my behavior. That moving through today worrying about tomorrow is looking the proverbial gift horse in the mouth. That the goal is not more, more, more, but gratitude for now, now, now. That the sweetest thing in this life is to cherish the people I've been given to love.
The little windmill across the river is almost never still. Its three blades, frozen in place right now, are reminding me. In the hurry hurry hurry of life, this small piece of a day, these minutes of this quiet morning are precious.I think I'll take my cup of coffee out on the porch. Shhhh. I'm not waiting. I'm listening.