Waiting
I tell myself I am not just waiting…for the pandemic to end, for life to return to whatever was normal, for the Afghans to be rescued by some divine intervention, for the fires to cease, for acceptance and space to dance and for Asher to be less nervous when strangers enter our house. Strangers to him, but not to us.
I bruised myself several times over the past two years. Some visible as when I tripped over the broken curb on the gloriously sunny day after I had finally been able to swim in the one outdoor pool in San Francisco. The fall derailed my plans to return to the dance studio, finally able to move with others in real time and space. So, I waited to heal from the fall. I tried not to gorge on chocolate and to maintain the litany of exercises recommended by the set of medical professionals I am lucky to have in my corner.
The scrapes on my knee healed. The knee specialist reported there was no arthritis and no need for surgery and, in some diplomatic way I cannot recall, that I was in better shape than most 70 year-olds he knew, but likely he only knew those waiting for surgery. Next came the shoulder doctor, commenting on how strong I was as I leaned in and pushed his outstretched arms aside, the isometrics to prove myself.
Waiting…to find hope among the news stories I seem to be gorging on. Waiting to extract reasons to smile instead of cry which I do regularly over coffee each morning. I tell myself that it is okay to have a home and food and the love of my family. I tell myself that it was only by chance I was born here instead of in Kabul or Palestine or with black skin. I teeter at times on a high wall, like Humpty Dumpty, with fear on one side and my mother's optimism on the other. Like the Berlin wall.
Waiting …to see if I will ever make the trip to Eastern Europe that we had to cancel years ago when I had the first fall. This one so much more violent with two broken wrists and weeks of therapy. Now with plates and screws I do planks and quarrel with the calendar…can I really be 70?
My handsome, gifted hand surgeon just wrote that he is retiring. I tell myself I won't have need for him again. I tell myself that the plane won't crash as we head to Kauai. That Nico will arrive safely on his drive from Los Angeles. I am waiting not to be afraid of transportation.
As I quarrel with myself that what I really want to do is run away from the waiting. To be standing still surrounded by hope and peace and clear air as far as the eye can see.
What I really want to say is I am teetering on a balance beam, waiting for change, acceptance, good news. A cup of coffee without the saltwater of tears and fear and guilt which I must reconcile as so many others teeter and fall into sadness and fear and horrors I can only imagine even with the help of the New York Times.
What I really want to say is that waiting is hard. I strive to be in the moment, to watch the sidewalk for the bumps which could derail me or Humpty Dumpty. To notice when a piece of the curb is missing so I will step carefully. I tell myself that if I can pay attention and stay focused, I can keep putting foundations under those castles in the air that I cannot stop building. The hope that Afghan women and young girls will still flourish, that shades of blue and clarity will emerge as the flames retreat and that this pandemic which has consumed us all will subside.