The art of waiting

Waiting. We do a lot of it. Waiting in traffic, in the checkout, or for that blankity-blank Amazon delivery.

Sometimes there’s a different kind of waiting when something big is at stake.

Maybe it’s for a job, test result, or diagnosis. Or the results of the midterm elections in the U.S.

I thought the midterms would be wrapped up by this past Wednesday, yet it appears we’re not quite done.

I don’t always do well traveling through a liminal space of not knowing, especially when the stakes are high, so I decided to study the art of waiting. The internet offered some advice, which you probably know already.

I decided to study the art of waiting. The internet offered some advice, which you probably already.

Like “learn to be patient.” Great idea, but I didn’t have time for it Wednesday (ha) when I was putting off reading the news.

Looking for perspective

I wanted a different perspective on waiting, so I turned to poets who have learned to wait and can squeeze an ounce of beauty from the most difficult situations.

And, in a different light, I also turned to trauma specialists who help people weather the possibility of bad news that can trigger old feelings.

As I did, I asked a few questions:

• What if waiting was about being in this moment rather than getting to a future moment/piece of information/result?
• What if it was fine to carry a bundle of anxieties and fear, and still navigate life?
• What if waiting invited us to embrace the mundane and our daily rituals of ordinariness instead of waiting for the big thing to settle itself?
• What if beauty is always there, waiting to be found?

These ideas emerged:

Instead of waiting for – wait within

It ain’t easy trying to stay in this moment. But this is where life occurs, even if this moment feels too filled with worry. What’s in the space with you now? Don’t pretend to be calm, don’t pretend at all. Just notice what is with you, anxiety and all, including the spider that is currently navigating across the floor.

Pendulate (Try this exercise)

Pendulate is a fancy term I learned from Somatic Experiencing, a process that helps people gently release layers of trauma from their bodies. When you pendulate you move your focus between places in your body that house trauma, fear, or pain, to other places that are doing quite fine. It’s nice to know that if your left shoulder is in pain today like mine, your right elbow may be calm and trouble-free. And you can move back and forth between the two.

So try this when waiting consumes you with worry. Place your feet on the ground, breathe in a relaxed way and try to feel where your worrisome thoughts are hanging out in your body. (Tight gut? Restricted diaphragm? Pain in the neck?) There’s nothing to fix or analyze. Just notice.

After a few moments, shift to a pleasurable memory, perhaps something or someone you love, and think about it as you breathe through your heart. Fill up on these feelings. Then, if worries creep in, feel them, or deliberately return to them and notice the form they take. Perhaps they come with a color, a texture, a weight, or other sensory feelings.

Then return to the pleasant feelings, breathe through your heart and feel them again. You can keep moving between difficult and pleasant feelings, lingering, perhaps, where it feels safest and best.

This process is different than positive thinking–because you’re inviting all of your feelings to be.

Notice if your worried feelings change at all, but don’t force a change. And stay focused on the body; you’re not figuring anything out.

I am comforted to know that at any moment, I have many parts and feelings. Some might not feel so good. Yet as worried as I might be, I am also probably carrying joy, ease, and appreciation somewhere in my body as well.

I find that incredible.

Bless the ordinary

I’m into the ordinary these days, simple routines when I can remember to do them. When my mind’s on fire, or I fear the apocalypse on the horizon, the simplest activity can bring calm. And some days the ordinary and routine may be all I can do, if I can do that. Feed the dogs, clean the kitchen, and water the horses. I may tell myself to breathe deeply as I try to avoid trying.  I just feel my gratitude for the rhythm of doing the daily stuff that always seems to carry a wholeness within it.

As I sit looking at my very messy desk, action central for too many projects, I pause and give myself an assignment: find ten objects of beauty in this room. Even in my small space, I find ten in a flash and see many more. On each chosen object I pause for a few seconds as if I could draw their essence into me. Each object comes with a history, a place of connection to the past, people I have loved, or an aesthetic.

Find beauty

I let beauty move through me like a force that’s always available. And I smile.

As Mary Oliver once wrote in Flare 12

When loneliness comes stalking, go into the fields, consider
the orderliness of the world. Notice
something you have never noticed before,

like the tambourine sound of the snow-cricket
whose pale green body is no longer than your thumb.

Beauty, bless her, is an equal opportunity provider.She doesn’t wait for sunny days, a good mood, or an election victory. She lives happily in sadness and can surface in rage. (Think of Beethoven.) She appreciates being noticed.

Concentrate on a passion

When we’re passionate about a project we’re doing, we can direct our attention to it. If I can concentrate on anything I really enjoy or care about, like writing this blog, my focus often pushes other thoughts away. (Note: I find this hard to do when I’m caught in a jangle of nerves.)

Divert yourself

Of course, there’s always diversion–allowing the mind to amuse itself with something trivial and attention-consuming. If the wonder of the spider spinning miracles from the ceiling isn’t enough, there’s always Netflix or a favorite distraction. I would have binged watched my way through “The Crown” had it been released last weekend.

Hopefully, the elections will be over soon, at least for now. But there will be more waits ahead.

Maybe I’ll work on that patience. Or maybe I’ll read a poem.

Here’s a poem to enjoy by Leza Lowitz (from Sacred Poetry from Around the World, an Anthology.)

Waiting

You keep waiting for something to happen,
the thing that lifts you out of yourself,

catapults you into doing all the things you’ve put off
the great things you’re meant to do in your life,

but somehow never quite get to.
You keep waiting for the planets to shift

the new moon to bring news,
the universe to align, something to give.

Meanwhile, the pile of papers, the laundry, the dishes the job —
it all stacks up while you keep hoping

for some miracle to blast down upon you,
scattering the piles to the winds.

Sometimes you lie in bed, terrified of your life.
Sometimes you laugh at the privilege of waking.

But all the while, life goes on in its messy way.
And then you turn forty. Or fifty. Or sixty…

and some part of you realizes you are not alone
and you find signs of this in the animal kingdom —

when a snake sheds its skin its eyes glaze over,
it slinks under a rock, not wanting to be touched,

and when caterpillar turns to butterfly
if the pupa is brushed, it will die —

and when the bird taps its beak hungrily against the egg
it’s because the thing is too small, too small,

and it needs to break out.
And midlife walks you into that wisdom

that this is what transformation looks like —
the mess of it, the tapping at the walls of your life,

the yearning and writhing and pushing,
until one day, one day

you emerge from the wreck
embracing both the immense dawn

and the dusk of the body,
glistening, beautiful

just as you are.

It ain’t easy trying to stay in this moment. But this is where life occurs, even if this moment feels too filled with worry. What’s in the space with you now? Don’t pretend to be calm, don’t pretend at all. Just notice what is with you, anxiety and all, including the spider that is currently navigating across the floor.

Pendulate: an exercise

Pendulate is a fancy term I learned from Somatic Experiencing, a process that helps people gently release layers of trauma from their bodies. When you pendulate you move your focus between places in your body that house trauma, fear, or pain, to other places that are doing quite fine. It’s nice to know that if your left shoulder is in pain today like mine, your right elbow may be calm and trouble free. And you can move back and forth between the two.

So applying this idea to waiting, when worry about what’s coming consumes you, plant your feet on the ground, breathe in a relaxed way, and try to feel where those worrisome thoughts are hanging out in the body. (Tight gut? Restricted diapraghm? Pain in the neck?) There’s nothing to fix or analyze, just notice.

After a few moments, shift to a pleasurable memory or something or someone you love and feel it as you breath through your heart. Fill up on these feelings for a while. Then, as worries creept in again, go back, feel them, and notice the energy they hold. Perhaps they have a color, a texture, or other feeling.

Then return to the pleasant feelings , breathe through your heart and feel them again. You can keep moving between difficult and pleasant feels, lingering, perhaps, where it feels safest and best

Notice if anything changes without trying to force a change. And stick with the body; you’re not figuring anything out.

I am comforted to know that at any moment, I have many parts and feelings. Some might not feel so good. Yet as worried as I might be, I am also probably carrying joy, ease, appreciation somewhere in my body as well.

I find that incredible.

Bless the ordinary

I’m into the ordinary these days, simple routines when I can remember to do them. When my mind’s on fire or I fear the apocalypse on the horizon, the simplest activity can bring calm. And somedays the ordinary and routine may be all I can do, if I can do that.  Feed the dogs, clean the kitchen, water the horses. I may tell myself to breathe deeply as I try to avoid trying.  I just feel my gratitude for the rhythm of daily stuff that always seems to carry a wholeness within it.

Find beauty

As I sit looking at my very messy desk, action central for too many projects, I pause and give myself an assignment. I will find ten objects of beauty in this room. Even in my small space, I find ten in a flash and see many more. On each chosen object I pause for a few seconds, feeling them as if I could draw their essence into me. Each comes with a history, a place of connection to the past, to people I have loved, or to an aesthetic.

I let beauty move through me like a force always available to us. And I smile.

As Mary Oliver once wrote in Flare 12

When loneliness comes stalking, go into the fields, consider
the orderliness of the world. Notice
something you have never noticed before,

like the tambourine sound of the snow-cricket
whose pale green body is no longer than your thumb.

Beauty, bless her, is an equal opportunity provider. She doesn’t wait for sunny days, a good mood, or an election victory. She lives happily in sadness and can surface in rage. (Think of Beethoven.) She does appreciate being noticed.

Concentrate

This may be too hard to do when I’m a jangle of nerves. But if I can concentrate on anything I really enjoy or care about, like writing this blog, my focus often pushes other thoughts away,

Divert yourself

Of course, there’s always diversion–allowing your mind to play with something trivial and attention-consuming. If the wonder of the spider spinning miracles from the ceiling isn’t enough, there’s always Netflix or your favorite diversion. I would probably have binged watched my way through “The Crown” had it been out last week,weekend.

Hopefully, the elections will soon be done, at least for a while. But there will be more waits ahead.

Maybe I’ll work on that patience. Or maybe I’ll read a poem.

Waiting

by Leza Lowitz (from Sacred Poetry from Around the World, an Anthology.)

You keep waiting for something to happen,
the thing that lifts you out of yourself,

catapults you into doing all the things you’ve put off
the great things you’re meant to do in your life,

but somehow never quite get to.
You keep waiting for the planets to shift

the new moon to bring news,
the universe to align, something to give.

Meanwhile, the pile of papers, the laundry, the dishes the job —
it all stacks up while you keep hoping

for some miracle to blast down upon you,
scattering the piles to the winds.

Sometimes you lie in bed, terrified of your life.
Sometimes you laugh at the privilege of waking.

But all the while, life goes on in its messy way.
And then you turn forty. Or fifty. Or sixty…

and some part of you realizes you are not alone
and you find signs of this in the animal kingdom —

when a snake sheds its skin its eyes glaze over,
it slinks under a rock, not wanting to be touched,

and when caterpillar turns to butterfly
if the pupa is brushed, it will die —

and when the bird taps its beak hungrily against the egg
it’s because the thing is too small, too small,

and it needs to break out.
And midlife walks you into that wisdom

that this is what transformation looks like —
the mess of it, the tapping at the walls of your life,

the yearning and writhing and pushing,
until one day, one day

you emerge from the wreck
embracing both the immense dawn

and the dusk of the body,
glistening, beautiful

just as you are.