The kayaks, neatly stored away from winter’s storms, wait for spring.
The cabin, too, waits for spring.
“Spring can’t be far away, can it?” I hear the kayaks whisper to one another as the shaft of sunlight brings encouraging warmth on a chilly day. “When will our humans return so we can take them for a ride?” they ask. “And what about me?” rejoins the cabin. “A warm fire would be so nice, and the smell of coffee perking so welcoming.”
Each season brings its own beauty but we seem to have a longing to move forward into the next, even as we revel in the luxury of the present one, more so if complaining about its offerings is our default.
We are such impatient people, increasingly so, unable to bear waiting whether in a check-out lane, or a border crossing. The kayaks and cabin have absolutely no alternative; wait they must. As they do, they give us the gift of their waiting beauty, their stillness just out of the reach of the crashing, ever-moving waves. A contrast indeed and one which challenges me: am I the ever-moving, restless ocean, the stalwart welcoming cabin, or like the kayaks, hungry for adventure? Or a little of all three?