Autumn. The season of harvest. The season when all of our toil throughout the year is to pay off in a beautiful and abundant yield that we pleasantly reap and celebrate throughout the season. A season to which we eagerly await not just the harvest, but also welcome the unmatched beauty of turning foliage; colors so vibrant and rustic and grounding.
A season dedicated to gathering. Families and friends gathering to give thanks. Gathering of food for the impending winter. Gathering our thoughts of gratitude. Gathering our unwanted clothing for donation. A clearing out of unnecessary clutter. Simplifying. Preparing. Sharing.
It is nearly the end of October and the leaves here in my area are beginning to change. Check out my Photo Challenge post. And I have been, and still am, approaching the season with great anticipation of an abundant harvest. My yield being the fruits of my labor in launching my writing career.
Here I am, trusting in faith, that I am on the right path. Yet I am questioning my decision. Here I am wondering if I am delusional. Yet I hold tight to the belief that I can live the life of which I dream. That I can design the life I want to live. That I am, indeed, the architect. That I am in tune with my something “special”. That I know my gifts and how to practice them. That following my passion is the solution. Yet, I cannot see my harvest. I do not see anything yet ready to reap. And so, I am waiting, waiting, waiting.
Sometimes waiting patiently and assuredly. Believing that I planted healthy seeds. Believing that I watered them, fed them, and protected them from the weeds, throughout the spring and summer. Waiting patiently for my crop to mature and yield me sustenance.
Sometimes not. Waiting is difficult. Patiently waiting, even more so. How long must I wait I ask? Will there even be a crop I ask? Will it be enough I ask? Do I just suck at gardening I ask? Do I suck at writing I ask? Is the Universe really for me and not against me I ask? Am I cut out for this I ask? Can I make it on my own? Can I have this life I imagine? Am I good enough? What do I have to hold onto if not faith in my ability? Waiting. Waiting. Waiting.
Waiting for answers. Waiting for my crops to mature. Meditating. Questioning. Meditating. Toiling still. Waiting some more. Believing is seeing I tell myself. Feeding my garden with gratitude, positivity, faith. And yet, waiting still. Is this a season of the starving writer? Is this a season of the abundant writer? Is it somewhere in between? And so I wait…wait…wait.
Cliques fill my mind; some are weeds, some are fertilizer. My timing is irrelevant I know; The Universe delivers in glorious occasion. And so I wait; sometimes patiently, sometimes not.
Nonetheless, I wait, I watch, I toil some more. The season of harvest is upon us and there will be reaping; whether it be a sustainable crop or just chaff from dead seeds remains to be seen. And so I wait….wait…wait.