The Truth About Waiting

Heavy clouds looked ready to shed their weight against the window; the rain is a familiar arrival this time of year - though not equally welcome for all. 

As I watched the lane outside bustle with a rush of people from a coffeehouse window, an aroma filled with black tea leaves and honey pressed its sweetness to my nose. I hugged my thumbs into my mug to feel its radiant heat, kindly giving some strength to my shaking hands. The blackened sky shot all around me; violent bolts were on their way soon. 

My eyes were high along the cloudline. Its shapes changed with gentle motion like the color leaving the tips of a painter's brush. I sipped my tea patiently for the sky to open wide and let the quiet show start. My mind is fixed on a different kind of waterfront, I'm ready to go swimming in the street.

The first scattered drops against the windowsill were the indication that it was finally time. The low light settled me, my seat was a theater house, and the show was ready to start. 

Wind wisped the flags straight and sent leaves careening into flight. The turning heads and frantic looks acknowledged they were out of time as the hazy wall of water came on the coattails of an icy draft. 

The storm front was always a point of peace for me, an underwater chaos was the strangest kind of mesmerizing therapy; unspoken and elegant. It washes tired thoughts through the townhouse drains and melts the worry off my skin. My heart bloomed like an orchid, all without a single splash of sun. I always wondered if it’s someone sharing their tears with me, or the sky telling me it’s okay to let go of mine. Maybe it’s only a bit of mid-morning shade. 

Across the street in the wailing downpour, second-floor shutters slam from the shop owners. Black suits and top hats hurriedly look for shelter in a tightrope line along the storefronts. Merchants shutter their stalls, packing their goods away for the day, frustrated they’ll have to wait another day. 

I wish they could see what they’re so eager to vacate. The most remarkable trait of the routine is the willingness of people to label it as such. Caught in the gray majesty all around me reminds me how wasteful it would be to wait for this moment; a perfect original, a one of one. 

That’s because waiting is a tragedy, an inhibitor: yet everybody’s waiting. Waiting for better days and clearer skies. Waiting for the wind to die down. For the right words to slip your hand and the colors to come to life. Waiting for love’s allure. Waiting to complain, to be let down and lifted up again on the brink. Waiting for the longing void to be traded for the joy of an accomplishment. Waiting for wealth, for status, waiting for meaning. Waiting for death. That’s why I’ll leave myself right here, to get lost in this moment. 

When the air is full of flying rain, and darkened by its trails; time stands still. I’m not missing anything. I’m not supposed to be anywhere but here. If I daydream my tea away, nobody will ever know I was gone. Nobody will wait for me. I’ll find myself sitting exactly where I left, without a second thought lost. 

The welcome interruption of thunder sends a wake through the surface of my tea, gently inviting steam to fog the window. Looking out, it framed the street like a moving painting of oil brushing over itself a thousand times a second; magnificent and ephemeral, useless to try to replicate but inspiring to be there for. 

I feel sorry for people who don’t listen to the rain; getting lost in its beautiful sound is easy when you can’t hear the words. It’s just as pointless to waste time wondering where it came from, only to listen well when it arrives. 

As quickly as the lane prepared for its day ahead, it was emptied as if every trace of its people were flushed away in a watery erasure. 

To me, it served as the odd reminder that time won't wait for your ideas, your plans, or spirit. Today the cool rain that soaks your skin might be the refresh it needs, the winding steam filling your lungs may be its last kiss. The truth is, there’s no guarantee when we wait. The truth about waiting is that it’s an excuse to leave the moment. An invitation for thoughtlessness and boredom. One I’ve accepted on too many occasions. 

The drumming against the window increased in surging pulses, as if to match a heartbeat. I closed my eyes to focus on hearing it. What if the thoughts coloring my mind didn’t need to explode in a melody of lights? If I could sit down and shake hands with each one as it passed quietly into the collective, like a puzzle piece finding its fit. What if the voice of the rain in my ear gave me the words to speak to myself, and the tea on the edge of my lips gave me the patience to trust myself, that today would be a discussion, not a riot. 

Opening my eyes, I’m greeted with the sight of shop windows glowing with a yellow hue. Two lovers cluster under a blue umbrella to enjoy the space of an empty lane left behind by those who were afraid to get wet. The brick cobblestone was pooling glorious puddles, ready to be jumped in by children with rubber boots on their way to school. The wake of one planned day built a new one, an alternative invitation to a gray present. 

Across the table, I watched as a woman pressed herself to the window, so enamored with the sight she couldn’t break her gaze. She pulled a pencil frantically over her paper cup to capture the entirety of the scene in front of her to scribe every detail of its wandering motion. Twisting and turning to get a better view, for a moment ephemeral - not willing to chance a passing detail to memory. 

I hide my smile behind another sip of tea. Every one of us was lost in the same moment alone.

The hum of the rain against the window asks me what I think of the moment it laid out in front of me. Now’s as good a moment as any to remind me there’s no right way to take it; so long as I know this is where I am supposed to be. I respond in silence to recognize its presence. 

The truth about waiting is that for those who listen, there’s no such thing.