A Place at the Table

There’s a certain kind of waiting that doesn’t come with a countdown. There's no circled date on the calendar to count down to. No confirmation email. There won't eventually be a light knock on the front door to let you know it’s finally arrived.

Instead, it’s the kind of waiting that feels like static under the skin — like a faint humming in the walls. And though you don’t know what you’re waiting for exactly, you do know you’re waiting. You know it the way you know rain is coming, even if the sky is still clear and blue.

I feel like I've been on a first-name basis with that kind of waiting lately. I'm not waiting for a person. I'm not expecting a package (or at least not currently). But I know I'm waiting for something. I just can't name it or identify it.

Sometimes I think I hear it. There are soft footsteps in the distance and maybe even the rustle of a hem brushing the ground. So I’ve lit the candles. I’ve cracked the window. I’ve tidied up the space around me to the best of my ability, the way people do when company’s coming.

This kind of waiting doesn’t look like much from the outside. On the inside, it's a different story. It's present when my dreams shift tone, color, and content overnight. It has an invisible hand that directs my attention toward certain books, songs, and vibes.

Sometimes I think it has a scent, as well. Some days, that scent is a mixture of ozone and rose petals. Other days, maybe almond and salt.

Whatever it is, it lingers in the corners of the room and settles into the folds of the day. It inspires me to light a second stick of incense –– not because the first wasn’t enough, but because something just plain wants more smoke in the air. A thicker veil between what already is and what still might be if I keep still enough for long enough.

I'm trying not to name the unknown thing too soon. I’ve made that mistake before and decided too early what a thing must be, only to discover it was something else entirely. Sometimes, it's something better, or stranger, or softer. Sometimes it turns out to be something not meant for me after all, leaving me disappointed and deflated.

So this time I'm trying to exercise patience and presence. And the kind of faith that doesn’t need to be told what’s coming to justify leaving the light on for it, just in case it shows up in the middle of the night.

Thankfully, I also feel like there's something sacred about preparing for what hasn’t yet arrived. Setting the table for someone who may or may not come. Choosing the best dishes in preparation for a coming celebration. Folding the napkins. Lighting the good candles.

Maybe that’s what this particular type of waiting really is. A quiet honoring of possibility, and maybe even a form of devotion. To the next season of my life and to the version of myself that’s still out there somewhere, trying to find the door. I don’t know her name yet, but I want her to feel welcome.

I think that’s why I’ve been moving slower, listening harder, refusing to fill the silence just for the sake of making noise like so many other people out there do. There’s a certain peace in the spaces between things, and I want to make sure I hear what she has to say when she finally sits down.

So I keep doing the small, quiet things that feel like invitations –– writing down dreams even when they make no sense, walking circles in the garden at 11 o'clock in the morning, whispering yes into the flame when no one is around.

Because something is coming. And whatever it is, I don’t want to miss it because I was too busy trying to define it. So I wait. And I stay lit. And I write, because that’s my way of keeping the door ajar.

* Another candle lit on the table for the Feast of the Wandering Pen, a lunar journey through creative reflection in all its many forms.