the conversation. The kettle is singing
even as it pours you a drink, the cooking pots
have left their arrogant aloofness and
seen the good in you at last. All the birds
and creatures of the world are unutterably
themselves. Everything is waiting for you.
-- David Whyte
from Everything is Waiting for You
©2003 Many Rivers Press
I have been trying to locate a niggling dissatisfaction, an impression that until this morning continued to elude me. Finally, on Easter, it arrives in its fullness. I am distracted. We are all distracted.
While walking past a local bar and grill yesterday, I observed a woman texting, while her companion quietly ate his lunch. Not only was she ignoring him, she seemed disconnected from the outdoor setting. What or who was more important that the person across the table from her?
With each distraction, each superficial activity, we are erasing our depth. Instead of asking the difficult questions, we are becoming sated at the level of entertaining or being entertained. We imagine this is communication, but it is mostly a way to skate across the surface of life.
It is spring and I worry that an entire generation is missing the clues, the visceral beauty of something bursting from the dirt, a purple tulip or yellow daffodil. Are they noticing insects or naming local birds? Are they learning from that gut-wrenching place of needing to know, or instead acquiring knowledge as a commodity?
If we put our androids and our ieverythings aside for a day, what would we notice? The crow dipping overhead, the smell of blossoms come too early, the wind on our skin, each other? We might recognize the face across the table from us; intuit a need or a sorrow. Our conversations would be rawer. Our vulnerability would spike. Our words would be richer. We would allow for the open space necessary for creativity to germinate.
Everything is waiting for you.