Work, dog walks, meal prep, knitting, prayer–these things fill my day. Today, I find myself with unable to occupy myself at John’s doctor’s office. My computer’s battery is dead, I didn’t bring any knitting, the dog’s not here and there’s no way I am waking up my gently snoring husband post-treatment until he wakes up on his own. I’m annoyed and frustrated with myself for my lack of productivity. Now I must simply sit and wait.
I impatiently sit some more. There is medical speak and Spanish conversations occurring outside this recovery room, but they don’t make much difference here. I’m a rock in a river, life flowing around me. It’s just me and John in a little space outside of ordinary time, letting his treatment do its work. I breathe deep and exhale slowly. OK, I can be a rock. I do not always have to be moving. Being still is acceptable, maybe even necessary. I am still.
I am longing for John to awaken, but I am also longing for this space to widen and deepen. To let my soul settle, my whirling thoughts to lie flat on the ground, to let the expansiveness of his sleep fill me vicariously.
I wait now with more patience, watching John’s breathing, recognizing this as a sacred moment, one filled with the ordinary presence of an everyday God who watches our breath, our sleep, our work and our lives. He watches with me, this caretaker of breath, and we both smile for the stillness, the place of peace and rest.
* Written in April and rediscovered in Evernote yesterday.