Today, I waited for the water to get hot for my shower, for the water to get hot for our coffee, for the traffic-light to change on my way to work, for the phone call to go through to a serviceman, for the internet to download, for my lunch to heat up, for a tax‑accountant to return a call, for an appointment to show up at the office. . . it’s really interesting if I pause and list the moments of waiting in a normal day. I viewed only one of them as a gift; I grumbled about the rest of them: they were “irritants.”
Later, however, I sat with a person who was waiting for the results of his cancer tests. And it was not about “If;” it was about “’What and when.” His waiting changed (for a while) the way I saw my waiting. (Writing this, I commemorate his gift.)
Waiting can be irritating because “they” are keeping me from getting what I want when I want it (now); it’s their fault I am impatient, frustrated, angry, right?
This way of perceiving delays and frustration is almost universal. To observe it closely as it unfolds within me is profitable. After all, since irritation shows up so often in the backseat when I’m driving, shouldn’t I get to know my hitchhiker?
Notice that he (or she) universally disturbs your peace of mind and charity toward others. Personify the hitchhiker; does frustration have a voice with familiar tones? Does he (or she) frown? Condemn?
Waiting puts me on hold. Waiting reminds me the universe really isn’t listening to my expectations; it makes me feel little and unimportant, and disconnects me from my plans, and throws into question all the accomplishments I’m counting on. It’s a good thing.
It can be like automatic meditation, a mini‑retreat — if you welcome it.
Vladimir: Isn’t that just like a man?
Estragon: What?
Vladimir: Blaming on his shoes,
the faults of his fret.
Estragon: Let’s just go.
Vladimir: Right. Let’s go.
[They do not move.]
Samuel Beckett,
Waiting for Godot
(The concluding stage direction for Beckett’s play is
“Nobody comes.
Nobody goes.
Nothing happens.”)
