The Tao of Waiting

There is no doubt, just delay and long days of waiting. Days rolling into months that I know now would soon be a year – another year – of waiting.

In a series of scores of others but not like this one. This year is different, in this one there is smell of rain. But no respite.

The path lay hidden under futile efforts, attractive options that I know would detract. To be hacked clear of obstacles with the machete of thought, difficult decisions.

There is fear.  Fear is the familiar constant.

I let it flow, through me,  like the water I must drink. I let visions and wishfilled thoughts that would one day transform today’s reality, play, out in the sun.

I smear words, thoughts, wishes, dreams, desires of the burning, now restless, but not impatient heart, on the walls of chatrooms, hollows, dark cavernous, crowded, unknown, strange human minds.

For, if you can see them, you can find a way to hold ’em; if you can hold them, you can feed ’em, if you can feed them, they shall live and if they live, you can hope for them to thrive and if they thrive, I can cover the one hundred thousand miles.

Where I shall walk a few years hence is now a visible street, four walled spaces, lined with sound of distant voices, strange and cold.

The signs, though, are not always easily readable. But I see them – now – all the time. People, ideas, chances come together in curious synchronicity.

If wishes were horses we would still need the plane: through the pathless way, to a gateless gate, in and out of a life I have lived so far.

Vast spaces, a little girl running to meet the sky and the earth, a wedding, a funeral, at the finishing line where life holds court and, wishes grant.
She laid her back down on the grass, her gaze locked in the blue space above, she scanned the storm clouds – thunder or rain? Figure, plans executed or pain?

Beethoven

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