The Waiting Place

The waiting place, they say, is a waste of time;
A place where the unwitting and hopeless twiddle their thumbs.
The waiting place, they've told me, is an empty room
Where ticking clocks oppress the soul and the sunk sinks low.

I came into this waiting place today, looking for white walls
And an infinitude of sterile, blue chairs.

But when my feet landed in the waiting place,
I looked down at a bed of waiting flowers.
Waiting lilies and dazzling, wild blossoms fed the air
With a fragrance that beckoned me to linger.
When I looked upon the waiting place,
There was nothing stagnant or sterile about it.
The clocks were erased; wending waters bustled all about.
The waiting place was vaulted by great trees,
Waiting trees that had waited a hundred years to meet the sky.
Their branches were home to nestling, singing birds
And the affectionate movings of the wind.

When I came to the waiting place,
Birdsong and sweetness emptied my heart of all of its hurry.
The waiting place is only a prison to the soul on the run.
The waiting place binds us up and settles us down,
Demanding us to fall back into that chasing peace,
The peace that follows us even when we busily draw away from it.

The waiting place settles me into the seat of the Old Garden,
Where the Beloved of Creation, scarred hands and all,
Comes to walk when the day cools.

Written by Samantha Lindholm
February 21, 2014