For most of the year, my work days begin pre-dawn, waiting. After a usually well-timed and quick morning routine, I am off too the bus stop. The duration of my wait varies with the timeliness of the operator and me. Some days, like the morning of this writing, my timing is just off, so I sit longer, waiting in the dark.
Part of the difficulty of this particular wait is not knowing when the wait will end and how much can be accomplished in the meantime. Is this operator on time? Or will the first bout of bad timing snowball into more waiting? Who knows. For now, I wait.
Waiting with Meaning
I have waited in another kind of darkness. In the liminal space between childhood and adolescence, I waited for hope after my mother’s death. In very early adulthood, I waited for a dwelling as I teetered on the edge of homelessness. Not long after, I waited for the next step as the church of my childhood splintered. In my late 30s, I waited for some clue to calling as I walked through an unemployment that changed everything.
I’m not sure whether it’s easier to wait in the dark or in the light, but I do know sometimes waiting in the dark nurtures—and sometimes forces—reflection. The simple reduction of stimuli and the cool velvety air conspire to make it so.
I have waited in the dark and the not knowing has changed the waiting. Have you waited in the dark?
