WAITING FOR

What are you waiting for? I remember those words coming out of my mouth; looking up at my son, standing at the end of the diving board. People were lined up on the ladder behind him, waiting their turns. He had jumped off earlier but something wasn’t right and he danced a little anxiety dance, trying to drum up some courage. Finally he lay down, grabbed hold of the edges at the end of the board and slid over the side. There he hung, grasping the end of the board with his legs wrapped around it like a little monkey, clinging to its mother. Then he let go his legs and dangled for a while, looking down those ten feet to the water. Whether he lost his grip or let go of choice, you couldn’t tell. But the splash was less than spectacular and his swim over to the ladder lacked the bravado he had brandished climbing up the ladder.  He was 6.

What are you waiting for? Same words, different situation, many years later: I was thinking and it was a monologue. In the Midwest, seasons change on a predetermined date but it takes a while for the change to manifest itself. It’s well into Spring and the grass is green but we had ice on the glass yesterday and the breeze had a cutting edge that would not have made me notice in Dec. or Jan. Maybe there is a difference between waiting for something and just squatting in a warm place. Whatever the difference, I wasn’t excited about doing anything. 

By 8:00 a.m. I’m back from an hour in the pool and breakfast is either in progress or past tense. I didn’t feel like reading or writing or going somewhere so I trekked down to the basement and set to straightening up and putting tools away. My latest project was complete and it would be impossible to start a new venture on the cluttered work bench. There was a short piece of a door jam, too short to make something but too good to throw in the scrap box. The scrap box; full of good wood, just too small or not enough for whatever I was doing at the time. So I dug around, sanded some and sawed a little. A little glue and drill some nail holes: a couple of hours later I had a bird house. As is my custom, there were no measurements made nor taken; everything by feel and intuition. This morning the sun was warm today when I got home and the bird house was sitting on the bench. That must have been what I’ve been waiting for. A quick paint job, a bungee cord and we have a vacant wren house in the Tulip Poplar, in the back yard. Maybe I’ll make another one soon; don’t want the Bald Cypress or the Maples to go unoccupied. 

SOMETIMES

Sometimes you can’t wait to go to sleep, so you’ll wake up soon and meet a new day. Sometimes the long list of things to do is exceeded only by your enthusiasm. Sometimes you catch yourself smiling for reasons, too many to shuffle through. Then there are times when all you think about is coffee. It’s like in the water at 6:00 a..m. with a mile and a half to go: you know the last lap will be great but you don’t swim any faster. Sometimes you keep on putting one foot in front of the other just because. This is one of those times. 

Last December I visited a church in Dayton, Ohio. The building was on the edge of an open field where thousands of blackbirds scurried around, pecking here and there, looking for food, finding shelter and security in large numbers. That’s what blackbirds do in winter. Inside, the stained glass windows were aglow with sun light as we churched. Then we heard a muffled, rustling, whirring sound that had nothing to do with worship. Blackbirds had taken off in mass. They were flying in tight formation, so close we could feel their wing beats. It was a huge swarm that seemed to be going nowhere. You could see dappled shadows streaming across the opaque windows as they flew from left to right, then right to left. Up and down, around and around; the side windows darkened with only ripples and flashes of daylight at their passing. It went on and on, for a minute or more. 

I’ve seen the swarm phenomenon before but never so close or experienced it from inside a building. They flow like an airborne river, first one way, then swerve and dive, only to reverse direction and come around for another pass. The sound was too much to ignore and they were so close you could see individual shadows flash by. The congregation kept churching, right through the din of light and sound. I wanted to stand up and shout, “Hey, let's hear it for the blackbirds.” Did they think there was a hymn in the book or a prayer that could top that: I don’t think so. It made my day. 

So here I am today, feeling like a blackbird. I’m just shuffling around in good company, waiting for something to stir inside my head or my heart that will give me wings. Daylight is coming back, dawning sooner and dimming later. I’ll keep swimming early but one day soon I’ll wake up like Bill Murray, in the movie Ground Hog Day and know that it's time to fly..