Waiting is not my forté. Nope, not at all.
I'm a bustler. To me, one of the most irksome experiences is having to wait for something with nothing to do. It's why I almost always have something to read with me.
As I've spent time in the nursing home with my mother, I've been hand sewing, appliquéing batik hearts onto a batik background. I've long wanted to upgrade my appliqué skills and if you look at heart one and compare it with heart seven, I can tell the difference.
Even though it may sound like whining (or whinging as the Brits call it), I can feel my inner restlessness building down here on the Cape because I have nothing "real" to do—just waiting for Mom to make her last move, waiting for Hurricane Earl.
At the expense of sounding like one of Jane Austen's characters, I need to feel useful. I know that my presence helps relieve the considerable load on my sister, and that is both useful and important. I needed to satisfy my need to be with my mother.
But my life is in Vermont with Jay and Jesse and Goldie and George and our river and the birds and the trees with their turning leaves, my kayak and gardens, my work.
No, I am not good at waiting.
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