Waiting

April is almost here, but the weather in southern Oregon continues cold and wet. Snow rings the Rogue Valley, and all of us are waiting, waiting, waiting for spring's sweet exit visas.

Meanwhile, I practice waiting, or rather, I make a practice out of that which has been forced on me. I am tired of winter, weary of the cold, and fed up with the lingering head cold I can't seem to shake.

Still, I'm happy to be breathing, happy to wake up and simply be. I make effort to get warm. The effort is for inner and outer warmth. So I medicated my cold as much as I could and braved the ordeal of air travel to go to St. Louis last week to honor a dearly departed friend and mentor, George Hitchcock. George would have loved the irony of the Midwest weather. I walked outside on my first day into 35 degrees. The next day reached 80. The third day went back to 35, and the fourth day zoomed to 80 once more. Dress in layers, indeed! Our poor bodies had no idea what to make of it.

Meditation helped. Meditation always helps. I can feel the waiting rise up in me; I can see the waiting flit by. I can hear it's chatter, I can smell it (like dry grass on a hot summer day), and I can feel its weighty embrace. At last, at some point, I settle into it, the waiting, and it just is. I just am. It's not spectacular. There are no fireworks. There's just a moment of awareness, a jolt of being wide awake.