Many times, I’ve waited. For the friend to arrive. For the run to end. For the client to give feedback. For the man to commit. I’ve waited in anticipation. In dread. In fear. In hope. I’ve put my life on hold. While I’ve waited for the future.
Early again to meet my friend, I sat and I fidgeted. Checked my phone. Watched the clock. Wondered if she’d be early too. If I should order her a drink. When all the time, there were people to watch. A glass of ice-cold Chardonnay to enjoy. A gripping novel to get lost in. But I didn’t. Because I was speculating about the future.
When I ran, my thoughts ran on ahead. How much further to Kew Bridge? Will that twinge in my hamstring become an injury? What time will I get home? Should I detour past the bakery and buy a croissant? When all the time, there were runners to wave at, walkers to talk to, birds to spot, boats to watch. But I didn’t. Because my mind was busy anticipating the future.
The client, I sent him first draft a week ago. Why hadn’t I heard? Didn’t he like my work? Had I made unforgivable grammatical errors? How long would the changes take? My mind was in turmoil. When all the time, I could have been writing a novel, learning a new skill or reading a book. But I couldn’t concentrate. Because I couldn't stop dwelling on the future.
As for the man... he was evasive. Here one moment, gone the next, with vague promises of an unspecified next time. I imagined a romantic dinner. A weekend away. A life together. Just me and him in eternal bliss. I lived in a state of torment. When I could have been enjoying my work, my festivals and the time I did spend with him. But I didn’t. Not fully. Because I was too busy imagining the future.
Last year I waited for lockdown to end. For the pubs to open, for the gigs to start, for a holiday in Italy. Or Sweden. Or anywhere with a travel corridor. I waited and waited and waited. But when the future did come, I found it wasn’t the one I’d been waiting for. The pubs did open. But I couldn’t chat to anyone new – except the man on the door with the hand sanitiser. I’d booked a seated, socially distanced punk gig. But it didn’t happen. I went on holiday. To Bath.
My fears and dreams of the future, they changed nothing – except that I missed the present moment. They rarely turned into reality. And even if they did, by the time I got to them, I’d begun imagining the next future. Another time that didn’t yet exist.
It’s not always that way. Sometimes, I find myself in a different place. That place is the now. And in that place, my writing comes more easily. My running feels more fun. My work flourishes. And even if those things don’t happen, it’s really the only place I can be. So I lace up my shoes, I shut the door. And I run. I’m doing today. While it’s still here.