the hands of a clock

Before I knew how a clock worked, before I knew that minute hands and second hands existed, I remember asking my mum to do something with me, she told I need to wait for an hour when she was done with whatever she was doing. She told me to wait until the hand had gone all the way around the clock.

So I sat, in our hallway, in front of the piano staring at the clock. But as I didn’t understand the complex notion of the hour, minute and second hand, I decided that the slowest moving one was the one I was to watch. That it had to move through every number. I decided the hour was actually a whole day. That my mum was asking me to wait that long, and it seemed like it was forever.

But the joy of the moment where it was sooner than I thought. That was sweet.

For no reason at all, that memory stayed with me, always and forever it seems. And it creeps into my brain when I begin to complain about waiting. Waiting for anything. Waiting for food, or people, or life events to happen.

Waiting is a game I hate playing. (so maybe that is the reason I remember)

Anyways in some areas of life, I feel like I am waiting. Waiting for promises and waiting for dreams and waiting for events to happen. Waiting is hard, and beautiful and weird and exciting.

I’m still figuring out how to do waiting well, how to use the time, how to rest in the before, how to not wish away the time, how to be content, how to stay happy, not be frustrated…All the things.

But maybe sometimes it is okay to sit and stare at a clock for a while. To acknowledge the frustrations and the pain in the waiting. And maybe to ask the people around you to stand in those things with you. To let you rant at kitchen tables while they cook (and you eat off their chopping board). To just give the time to acknowledge that waiting is a hard game to play.



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