TheBanyanTree: Awaiting

[NancyIee at aol.com]

Sometimes waiting doesn't mean anticipation, as in: checking off the  
calendar, each slow day by each slow day, until Christmas. Sometimes waiting is  
dreaded, such as waiting for a graded test paper to be returned, or a 
naughty  child waiting for the threatening footsteps of his father the punisher. 
Or, the  waiting that encompasses all and any of the emotions akin to waiting 
for the  Second Coming or the End of Times.
 
In a nutshell, waiting seems to cause a rise in expectation, no matter in  
what form is the center of  the arrival of that which  is awaited.  The 
point of this is:  is the moment of arrival less  or more than dreaded or 
wanted? Remember back to your own childhood waiting for  your birthday.  The day 
arrives. You can hardly breathe. Whatever the  celebration or the gift, was 
it what you expected or wanted, or was there a  sudden burst of 
disappointment, a letdown?  
 
And, sometimes, the waiting is all, both anticipated and dreaded.
 
When I was small, my parents decided to take a holiday for themselves. A  
second honeymoon, a reprieve from the care of children and work, and a dip 
back  into those free days without the weight of so much duty. They could 
hardly wait  to begin, to leave for their adventure, while we, the children, 
were smothered  in dread of their going. Our grandmother would look after us in 
her home. It was  Summer, and grandmother lived on the river, where there 
were endless  possibilities of adventure and exploration. We loved our 
grandmother, because  she was one of those women who could be a child again at a 
moment's notice, and  was not afraid of dog hair or a little mud or the high 
squeals of joy or dismay  we sometimes emitted. We could hardly wait for it 
to begin.
 
The day came for our parents to leave. They were packed, grinning in their  
own anticipation. We were packed, each with our own little suitcases, with 
the  weekend's necessities, and a toy or two, a book or two, along with our 
pajamas  and clothes for good and play.  Our parents went on their way, and 
we  children began the weekend with the first of fun events grandmother  
planned.
 
The weekend was as though we were transported into the land of Peter Pan,  
or Alice's Wonderland, or to the yellow-brick road, all in one. It was 
amazing,  exhilarating, breathtaking, exhausting. My grandmother knew what to do, 
keep us  all too busy to get into a funk about missing our parents. It was 
the most  wonderful week I could have imagined. The younger children were 
breathless and  gleeful at each new adventure.
 
And I? I adored my grandmother, and she had planned an extraordinary time  
for us. I was the oldest, and as such, part leader in the merry-making. I 
prided  myself on my independence, my ability to be the strong one, the 
teacher, the  leader. Adults in my life were amazed at my inner fortitude, as when 
our pet  turtle disappeared and I lead the search party like a general, and 
became  soother of tears when the turtle was found dead in the corner of 
the yard, and I  was the strong one to assemble a napkin and matchbox and 
conduct the  burial.
 
I alone knew my secret. It was all an act for the benefit of the younger  
ones. Being the rock meant I held back my own tears, my own hurts, my own  
dreads. They could weep or rage as was called for, but I was their shoulder,  
there for their comfort, and cried alone, in my silence, and in secret.   
While I led the merryment at our grandmother's house, I was in terror that  
something bad would happen and our parents would not return.  When they did  
return, and gathered up the younger ones who screamed and dashed for hugs and 
 gifts. I was the one who hung back, breathing relief and gratitude, 
waiting  until last for my hug and little souvenir present. While I would have 
flung  myself into their arms as did the little ones, I was adult about it, 
standing  firm, smiling and glad, never revealing my inner fears or breathless 
relief at  their safe return.
 
Being steadfast is a curse. Though, once in awhile, I am so moved, that,  
all by myself, I am caught up in some melody that causes me to dance joyfully 
 and freely, and sing aloud for the mere joy of Life.
 
" . . .and dance as though no one is watching . . .  ."