The waiting

The waiting has become more difficult. Perhaps because knowledge of our next child feels more imminent. This isn't anxiety, wondering if it will ever happen. This is more a sense that it will, but we must plod, not run to it. I've opened my myself up emotionally, I can feel it. It's harder to plod when your heart is open. Be steady. Plod. Not exciting, but necessary.

Found this poem by accident and have read it many times over. It puts words to the longing. It's as if the author looked into me when penning these words.

Even it's cadence gives the feel of the tide; steady, monotonous, purposeful.

We keep moving toward you little one...

Waiting

Serene, I fold my hands and wait,

Nor care for wind, nor tide, nor sea;

I rave no more ’gainst time or fate,

For lo! my own shall come to me.

I stay my haste, I make delays,

For what avails this eager pace?

I stand amid the eternal ways,

And what is mine shall know my face.

Asleep, awake, by night or day,

The friends I seek are seeking me;

No wind can drive my bark astray,

Nor change the tide of destiny.

What matter if I stand alone?

I wait with joy the coming years;

My heart shall reap where it hath sown,

And garner up its fruit of tears.

The waters know their own and draw

The brook that springs in yonder height;

So flows the good with equal law

Unto the soul of pure delight.

The stars come nightly to the sky;

The tidal wave unto the sea;

Nor time, nor space, nor deep, nor high,

Can keep my own away from me.

—John Burroughs