To wait - verb - “stay where one is or delay action until a particular time or until something else happens”.

There is something strangely beautiful to waiting. Taking a seat on a cool bench under the shade of trees on a long summer walk, staring out into the purple-orange sky on New Year’s Day for the first sunrise of the year, letting go and putting down your pen, standing up from your desk to stretch out and breathe in, to take that well-deserved rest. It is in these moments of ephemeral, mirage-like existence, that true beauty can be found. 

I really enjoy cooking, and I’ve enjoyed it for a long time. There is something so relaxing, so satisfying about putting together the right ingredients, the right spices, to make something that just tastes… right. 

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As of a while ago, I have come to a realization. While I do enjoy cooking - the tossing of ingredients, the adding of seasoning, the mechanical technique, the empirical thought behind it - there is something more abstract behind my love of cooking.

I’d like to believe I make sunny-side up eggs in a pretty conventional way, and I’ve streamlined the process quite a bit. In the broadest strokes: you take a pan, heat it up, crack in the eggs, cover, and wait until the yolks are as cooked as you want them. I love this process, and when I do it I carry out the steps with a kind of sheepish glee, a deep subconscious joy that I can’t quite pinpoint. The little mechanical ticks, the pouring of the oil, the cracking of the egg, the sprinkling of the salt, the twisting of the pepper mill, all of it I love. And yet, when I make an egg, my mind doesn’t jump to the mechanical step-by-step that I described, it probably couldn’t if I tried. I’ve made eggs more times than I can count, and the process is just drilled into my brain. What I look forward to, then, is a little quieter. What I love most about making an egg is the period of time between placing the lid and taking it off. The moment the lid comes on - the crackling of the oil becoming subdued and muffled beneath the glass, turning opaque from the steam - there is such a simple and true elegance, a beauty, to that period of time. And that time is, by all means, waiting time. It’s right before you’re done, right before you can eat, all you’re doing is passing the time. You’re waiting. And that, that is beautiful.

There is a sentiment, I think, that waiting for something is akin to admitting defeat, an admission that whatever comes next is out of your jurisdiction. But I believe that is incorrect.

To wait is not admitting defeat. In fact, to wait is a brave thing to do: it is to stop for a moment. You’ve reached the end for now, the drawbridge to the continuing road will come down shortly. You’ve done all you can for now. The air is fresh, and the light is comfortable… 

Why don’t you take a seat? At least, until the drawbridge comes down.