Waiting for the rain.
8/22/2024
There will likely be a few times in most every life that the day to day routines must go on without you. I’m immersed in one right now. It’s hard to just sit by and watch everything transpire without me. According to my Doctor, it will be about 3 months. I’m ten days in as of this writing.
I’m blessed at my age, that I’m not suffering from anything serious or debilitating, but simply recuperating from a surgery that requires extended intentional passivity. Activity during this time could apparently jeopardize or even potentially negate a positive outcome. It’s serious from the standpoint that it involves the dexterity of my left hand. Guitar fingering is hugely important to me. Consequently, I’m planning to stick like glue to my Dr’s counsel, and trust the Lord for the outcome. My guitars are waiting.
The down time has given me an opportunity. The chance to do something I’ve always wanted:
Write.
There are so many things that I’ve wanted to record, life experiences, lessons learned, various events, humorous stories, but routines and responsibility always took precedence. Occasionally I would find the time to make a few scattered notes, but they would quite often be abandon - incomplete.
Waiting.
It reminds me of waiting for rain.
A farmer clears the field. Tills and loosens the soil. Gets rid of the obstacles, rocks, stumps. Puts the seeds into the dry ground and then waits.
My life reflects the same pattern albeit a much longer season. I was young once, got my education, applied what I'd learned in the setting of employment. Provided for my family. And waited.
For what?
The farmer waits for rain to cause the seed to swell, burst and sprout.
I guess I’ve been waiting for the luxury of uninterrupted time. My rain. Time to nurture ideas. To finally record the things I believe worthy of note. To sprout.
Finally the Farmer’s rain arrives and growth begins. But the toil continues. Tending the garden. Keeping out the critters and weeds that would negate the harvest. Praying for the correct ratio of sun, temperature and rain. Working, watching and waiting expectantly.
My rain has arrived! Unexpectedly by virtue of a surgery. The storm caught me without my umbrella. It soaked me to the skin and it appears to be a prolonged event. The seeds have been planted for years. In the fertile ground of my mind. I scramble to tend the sprouting garden. Weed through a jumble of memories, epiphanies. Lessons learned and humor. Determine what is noteworthy. I too work, watch and wait expectantly.
Here’s where the comparison breaks down a bit:
The farmer knows what he planted. He follows time proven methods to be reasonably assured of a bountiful harvest.
I haven’t got a clue what I’ve planted. I just observe the sprouts mature into whatever they become as I write. I have no method to follow. No training, but simply a notion that the pursuit may somehow be worthwhile.
The farmer has a pretty clear expectation of the bounty, based upon how much he planted and the conditions by which it matures. Hopeful expectation of financial return.
My expectations are less tangible. I find the effort extraordinarily therapeutic. It has revitalized memories. It’s entertaining. Filled with humor, poignancy, and yes - even a bit of wistful regret. The “return” for my labor is this newly acquired vantage point from which I can, clearly see and define the outcome of choices, long past. Gleaning wisdom, whose proper application will hopefully stack the deck in my favor at future crossroads.
Lord willing many remain.
I might be the only one that enjoys what I write, and I’m OK with that, but I also have a secret hope that maybe my kids and grandkids, future generations of my family will read, enjoy it and maybe gain some insight.
I know I sure would have enjoyed almost anything written by my ancestors.
Let the rain come!