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.

The Court of the Wild Chord

They arrived without fanfare, though they were dressed for it. One by one, they emerged from the folds of the early morning into my misty garden. Creatures of fur, claw, tusk, and hoof. Each robed in velvet and brocade, each carrying a violin that hummed with more than music.

I don't know where they came from. I'd never met them before, but some part of me recognized them all the same. 

Thorne, the Boar, smelled of smoke, freshly turned earth, and secret things that only grow at night. His hooves left glyphs and symbols in the soil as he searched for a spot to make himself comfortable. The melody he played pulsed with survival, a song built from bone memory and bitter root. 

He played what must always be remembered.

Virella, the Wolf, moved like moonlight through a locked room. His mournful eyes glowed with the images of secret maps. They were maps of places I’ve only seen in dreams and misremembered moments from the past. His music had no true beginning, no end. It was best described as a misty, winding trail of breath and instinct. 

He played what must always be followed.

Halbard, the Bear, bowed gracefully and low before beginning. His coat was heavy with charms. His fingers, thick but graceful, drew forth aching laments wrapped in subtle warmth. His was the music of lost things that are desperately missed once they're gone, as well as those we've forgotten to keep remembering at some point along the way. It was the music of grief.

He played what must be respectfully mourned.

Malgore, the Goat, did not bow at all. Instead, he smirked before glancing into the four corners of the garden, as if to make sure the entire morning was listening. And then he played something that turned the air inside out. It was a vaguely dissonant melody I knew and feared. A secret I hadn’t meant to keep. 

He played what must be known. Eventually, but only in due course.

None of them spoke, even to one another. And their impromptu concert was brief. Just one short but perfect piece each. Maybe the music was meant to be a gift. Perhaps a warning or even an aging mirror that could be made bright again with care and polish. 

I suppose that is for them to know and me to contemplate.

When they were done, they vanished the same way they had come. There was no drama or urgency. They didn't make a single sound more. But once they were gone, the entire space felt rearranged in a way I could not define. Sometimes I think they were reminders that even in the elegant places you're sure you've successfully tamed, a certain wildness still remains. 

That wildness makes music. And if you're wise (and very lucky), you'll listen.

* This entry is part of The Feast of the Wandering Pen, a month-long ritual that includes writing, remembering, and return to self-clarity.