I spent a lot of time waiting Saturday. I was waiting for a deer to walk out. I sat on the stand almost all day with no real movement of wildlife at all. The birds and squirrels were even remarkably quiet.
I spend a lot of time waiting every day, I think. Waiting for something to happen. What do I think is going to happen? I can’t even answer that question. I just feel as if something is about to happen. Something for which I need to wait.
Perhaps nothing is going to happen. What if I am just waiting? What if I just sit waiting until my time has run out and the days of my life have gone?
I am not blindly waiting. I am expectantly waiting. Waiting for whatever it is. I believe I will know when it happens.
Meanwhile, I try to stay busy. Going to work, trying to keep up with the house, cooking. I go with him when I can. Hunting, fishing, riding in the buggy. Whatever he does and wants me along. (Which is anyplace except his recliner.)
I also spend time thinking. Mentally preparing for the something that might happen. I think it might even be something no one else will see. Maybe it will simply be a shift of my perception. A change in my belief system. Not even all my beliefs. Just one or two. Enough to make my entire world change. The world I inhabit in my mind.
Sometimes I feel as if a big reveal is just about to happen. The curtain in my mind will fall away and I will see whatever it is I am supposed to know. Maybe just the seeking is the happening. It all feels strange and difficult to explain or examine.
What do I want? Peace of mind, contentment, purpose, a reason to spring out of bed every morning ready to start the day. I want to know that it is good and well for me to want to be happy. I want to know that it is good and well for me to want to love and be loved. I want to know that it is good and well to be alive and well.
I struggle with a type of survivor’s guilt and with a sense of abandonment. I depend on him so much to provide emotional support. I feel like an emotional vacuum at times. I try to not cling to him overmuch. Much of the time I want to curl up in his lap in that recliner and stay there.
One of the best things I have learned is that my feelings are not me. I was born terribly sensitive. So much so, my grandmother called me “Squall-bags” for a nickname. She always offered me a sugar tit. After spending most of my life held hostage by my emotions, I am finally getting free of them. Peace of mind is sure to come. Eventually, purpose will emerge with contentment to follow.