Waiting

It rained last night!

Normaphotos from this morning have taught me two things: sometimes even drought-dwellers must be patient for rain; although the clouds evaporated in morning light, 

it is time to think about bucking firewood again --which makes two things I know and that is a great mental burden right now. Yet, it is time to post, nothing strictly scheduled --I am retired-- but a feeling left by recent enigmatic disturbances to my innards, to which an old essay called out and imposed itself upon the present. Considering the tenor of my previous post, I thought it apposite to trot out this entry from 2011:

There is an ancient therapeutic art that predates Yoga, Tai Chi and certainly the medical philosophy of Galen. Its origin is shrouded in prehistory but is rediscovered by every generation. It may not even be a human invention because animals and insects practice it as a general thing. Even plants organize seasonal frenzies of it. It is called waiting.

Consider the specimen pictured above. In the background we can barely make out an orange extension cord where he has been running a saw. There is evidence also that he has been splitting logs with sledge and wedge. There is a battered yellow wheelbarrow with nothing in it. This means he's in the middle of a chore. Why is he sitting down? He is waiting.

Notice the traditional posture --gloves in hand, sitting forward, marginally alert expression. Notice also the official, all-weather waiting machine he sits on, and over which he demonstrates such mastery. Obviously a skilled practitioner. He is waiting until he feels like going back to work. That could take a while, so let us examine the history of this discipline.

When we don't feel well, we get medicine. Medical science, as we know it, has advanced to quite a complicated thing, commensurate with the increasing complexity of disease. But there was a time when the only communicable distemper was fleas. The treatment was waiting, waiting until they went away or until one got used to them. And there was, we can be historically certain, even a time before that.

It was during that remote golden age that waiting-therapy was practiced and perfected for its own sake. One withdrew from the challenges of primordial life by sitting down and waiting until one's spouse came out taking snapshots and asking where the firewood is. Careful attention to this essay provides a reply of unimpeachable authority: "wait a while".

The therapy discussed here has existed longer and adapted itself more universally to modern medicine than any other. You will not find clinical space devoted to later methods of mental and physical therapy in every medical establishment, but by golly you'll always find a waiting room.