There is no anticipation for whatever I await.
There is no toe tapping for time wasted,
nor anxiety for things not accomplished.
Now, on the cusp of my fifties,
I am not central to the lives of my children,
nor pursuing classes, nor checking off many items on many lists.

I have discovered the joy of waiting.

As a young mother, wait time was wasted time.
I could be cleaning, cooking, crafting, sewing, driving, fundraising,
checking off responsibilities and feeling
virtuous for their volume.
As my children grew, waiting meant study time for classes,
jamming learning into every available second.
Unwanted waiting in previous years morphed into exerting my mind,
firing neurons that hadn’t flamed in decades.

I have discovered the joy of waiting.

Now, as I wait, I’m cocooned in my silent, small world,
napping, reading, drawing, writing,
free floating down the rivers of memory and imagination.
Time waiting for others is a gift to myself, filling the well of inner energy,
suspended between the past’s rush and tomorrow’s anticipation.
As time ticks down from the middle of my life, in that space I am free from its restraints.

I have discovered the joy of waiting.