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Not long after finishing this piece I found myself in my doctor’s waiting
room using the time to work on its name. How I ended up with a specialist
in addiction and death as my family GP is another story, but he’s a good
doctor, and his waiting room is an interesting mix of spiked hair and
walkers, studded belts and granny glasses on chains. It occurred to me
that by simply waiting, we were sharing in a present moment, and that
waiting is one of life’s major themes. Normally the experience of life is
an ongoing collision of bumper cars receiving far too many volts from the
grid, and waiting becomes insufferable; so we charge ahead, looking for
what promises to satisfy our hungers.
There is an
old Asian parable about a man who had lost the key to his treasure
somewhere in his home. When asked why he was looking for it outside the
house, he said the light was better.
Our own inner
topography can be dark, confusing and obscure, but it also holds the key
to personal treasure. I remember when I was a cop, entering a dark
burglarized warehouse at three in the morning. I crouched behind some
crates and waited. It took several moments before my eyes adjusted to the
dark and patterns began to appear. My hearing detected the small rhythmic
sound of a fan, of rats. I could smell cardboard and glue, oil and other
things I couldn’t put a name to. A search confirmed what I already knew
through my senses, that the building was empty. I recall that growth of
awareness in those few moments of waiting in the dark:
a taste of
growth, with its fear and expansion, like awakening to a dream lover. |
