And that includes you, Autumn. And winter. In this sunshine-brimming tropical space.
My dad tell stories about he, as a kid, used to sit at the stairway of his aunt’s house to wait for Tatay Bining, my grandfather. It wouldn’t matter whether he sits there for hours or minutes. What matters if my lolo comes or not. Sometimes, my aunt would tap my dad’s small, childish shoulders with her head shaking, telling him that grandpa’s arrival will be delayed the next day. That will make my dad cry to sleep.
Because of that story, I tend to have an emotional attachment with staircases. For me, they are places to wait.
There weren’t any staircases in the house, but I have a feeling I’ve been waiting for a lot of things for a whole lot of time. I have been waiting, mostly, to be found, over and over again, as a little gem in a bucket of pebbles, shining, glimmering under the sunlight. I have no idea of what my gem-ship is, but I know I have something under my stone-cold skin when cut and polished. I knew something will happen if I was found. So I keep on waiting.
I, with that notion, never left my place on the staircase. Faithfully, hopefully, like a dog waiting for its master to return. My eyes will dart into the dark corners, wondering what’s beyond, trying to hear footsteps if there was anyone, anything, coming for me.
Waiting has taken a big part of my life. I’m not the one who is blessed with the confidence to go after things with the club. My virtue is to believe and keep on believing. Even if sometimes, all the things I have been waiting for, slowly dissipates into small atomic particles and the words that once formed those wishes were erased from the dictionary.
I have waited for my novel to be written, which versions I have done exceeding ten times. The current version just pulled the last string; I put the story down realizing I was too childish when everything was conceived, and I was trying to retain all my childish, nonsensical thoughts into it 10 years later. What’s surprising? The story I wrote in high school, something I wrote off in a notebook and finished without editing, hits off soundly. Remarkable. I need to ditch the heavy baggage of an ideal, hoping to have it replaced with a fresh new story that will really speak about my heart.
I have waited for myself to heal. And it took all the years my twenties to finally discover what’s inside this flesh. Yes. My youth and adolescence hardly made sense to me. I did not make sense to myself. It took a lot of journalling, writing, drawing, exploring and finally, praying, to finally stumble upon the idea of a creature I was created to be. And my, getting here, despite being a late bloomer, was worth it.
I have waited him and I am still waiting. Yes, you. Whoever you are. I’ve gotten this far and I am not giving myself up on the next best thing. We’re two of a kind and I wouldn’t want to miss you in the world. I have named you with so many names and have given you with so many faces, but the time my eyes finally lands into your will just set up a flicker to burn all those illusions. You are real. Finally, we meet.
I have waited for my purpose, my lifelong path, and I’m getting there. Little by little by little. Because I understand that it took me long years to finally be confident in myself again and that shadowy part of life I lived in made sense to me now. I am waiting for opportunities, chances, to use my skills and heart and brains to embrace as many people as I can and share a kind of love nobody believes exist.
I am waiting. At this very moment, I am waiting. For miracles. For changes. For transformations. I am being sewn into place, stitch by stitch, all by the gentle hands of my Master. And then I realize He too, has waited. And I guess everything happens in His marvelous time.