I’ve been thinking about snails. Moving slowly, but still moving forward. I bet they don’t think they’re moving slowly. Snails just mind their business. They crawl at their own pace, and they don’t get bogged down with the existential weight of how fast everything else is going around them. They have all the time in the world to be worried or insecure or scared, but they aren’t. They’re carefree and proud and untroubled. Probably. I have no idea.
I’ve been feeling like I’m sitting in a waiting room lately. Biding time with projects and activities until my name gets called. I brought a novel and my sketchbook. When I was a kid, I loved waiting rooms because it meant I could pore through a Highlights magazine or play I Spy with my sister. Now, I sit in waiting rooms and think of all the things I c/sh/w-ould be doing instead. Meetings I had to push so I could get to my appointment, only to spend half the time that I blocked off in a quiet room with strangers all there for the same reason. Every time something shifts a little, I think it’s finally my turn. I look at the clock and see how much time has passed since I first sat down. It’s hard not to get discouraged, but the seconds hand keeps ticking. Moving slowly, but still moving nonetheless.
