Wait, Wait Please Tell Me
When Waiting Necessitated Creativity
While considering if and how Wednesdays at the Well would observe Advent this year, I was drawn less to the religious aspects of the season and more to the act of waiting itself. I began to wonder about the connection between creativity and waiting.
Our 2024 Advent Calendar, Creatively Waiting shares daily deliveries on Facebook and Instagram to guide your waiting and cultivate your creativity.
For the next four weeks, Wednesdays at the Well will build on the ideas from the calendar, inspiring us to explore our creative gifts and expand our creating capacity.
I never considered myself a “dog person.” When I started thinking I wanted one, I was as surprised as anyone. It was during the pandemic. I had recently moved from Michigan to Florida. I was working remotely and like most of the world spending my days and nights home alone.
If you know me, you know I don’t make decisions without great thought and planning. Of course, I had an extensive list of things I needed to consider and do before getting a dog. Once I began checking things off on that list, I created another. This list was more about the dog. The breed, the age, the size, the personality. Several times, I came close to declaring I was ready and then stepped back. I was waiting for the perfect moment to find the perfect dog.
It was September 2021. No longer renting an apartment, I had been in my new home for several months. I knew the condo association rules about pets. I knew more about myself and my schedule. I’d been researching what every first-time dog parent needs to know. I’d been visiting pet rescue locations and websites. One evening I found a new dog listed at the local Humane Society. She looked perfect. The right size. An irresistible face. Eyes calling my name from the photo. There was just something about her.
It was a Friday. She would be available for adoption that Saturday. And I was registered for an all-day online training for work. I was certain she’d be gone by Monday, the earliest I could go meet her. Well, I’ll just keep waiting.
Saturday morning, I was up early to get a walk in before the training. Shortly before it was set to start, I learned I’d been mistakenly registered for the second offering of the event, which was several weeks away.
Was it meant to be? I looked at my watch and realized I could still get to the Humane Society by the time they opened. And I did. And she was there waiting. When the volunteers tried to steer me to other dogs, I firmly said, “no, thanks. I’m here for the little chihuahua, the tan one with the captivating eyes.”
From the moment they brought her into the room and I squatted down, putting my hand out for her to sniff, it was love at first sight. She was nervous and anxious and curious about me and everything around her. We played for a while. I gave her some treats. She licked my face and knocked my hat off.
Not much was known about her history, except that her early years were marked by trauma. It never crossed my mind that I’d leave there without her. I waited—not quite patiently—while the paperwork was completed. I used the time creatively, to pick out her new name and to make a list of all the items we’d need to pick up on the way home.
We’ve been inseparable ever since. Surviving hurricanes and long car rides from Florida to Michigan together. She was an important part of my mom’s cancer journey, becoming a healer and a helper in the recovery process. She is a total fan of walks on the water and in the woods. She’s a lap dog and a take a nap together dog. And a watch dog. And a nervous wreck more often than not. And she is stubborn. If she doesn’t want to do something she won’t.
One day—not that long ago—she refused to go outside, which is unusual. For several days, she’d go in the back yard, but would not let me put her collar and leash on for a long walk. Every time I picked up the collar she ran into another room or into her crate. She’d growl and snarl. My frustrations grew and my patience faded. Especially the day I had somewhere to be. Why was she doing this? Nothing—not even treats—would get her to move.
When I ran out of ideas, I had to get creative.
I sat down on the floor near her toy box and pulled a few of her stuffies out and set them beside me. She slowly peaked her head around the corner. I started to hum. She came out of the bedroom. I started to whistle. She edged a little closer. I started singing a made-up song, about a little dog with curly cues in her hair. She laid her head on my leg. We just sat and waited.
I knew she wasn’t ready yet to even think about the leash. I kept singing. Making up more verses to the non-sensical song. Her whole body now resting on my leg, not just her head. I forgot I was trying to get her to go out.
Ruby has changed how I wait. How I prepare. How I move and how I stay still. Being patient with her I’ve learned to be more patient with myself and others. Being creative with her I’m more creative with myself and my dreams.
She has changed how I understand my own trauma and the ways it shows up, especially when I least expect it. There are days I don’t want to go outside either. Ruby invites me to sit with the why rather than rushing to action or feelings of guilt and shame. She begs me to sing more silly songs, to hum and whistle when I don’t know what else to do. She guides me to be kinder and gentler. Softer. Intentional. To re-imagine waiting. To focus less on time and more on presence.
As temperatures drop, snow falls, day light hours decrease, and the holidays approach, my anxiety rises. My emotions bubble just below to the surface. Grief inches closer. Fears intensify. Expectations become harder to manage. Doubts creep in. This year especially, as the world spins further in chaos, the stakes feel higher. The risks seem greater. Patience seems impossible. The call to be creative sounds louder and shines brighter.
Ruby let out a big yawn and after an even bigger stretch she pulled the collar and leash from the pile of toys sitting beside my leg. I continued singing as I put it on her. She was bouncing with such excitement I couldn’t get it on fast enough. And I forgot to put my watch on to count our steps.
An hour later we returned home after a nice long walk to the river and back. She stopped and sniffed every flower and all the blades of grass. She barked at squirrels and hopped through piles of leaves. She yapped at geese and honking cars and wagged her tail like a windmill when strangers commented on her cuteness. She steered us off the path right into muddy puddles. She jumped up on a bench and refused to move until the ship passed by. Content to rest in the breeze.
Reminding me that the journey call for pauses, breathing, stillness, and snacks.
That waiting necessitates and makes room for creativity.
That creatively is one way to navigate trauma and change and difficult seasons.
That being creative is a path of survival that leads to a life of healing and wholeness.
That humming and whistling and singing silly songs are where miraculous symphonies get started.
Where and how does creativity show up in your life? In your waiting?
Reflect on a time when waiting necessitated creativity.
Creatively Waiting,
Rebecca & 10 Camels
I love this piece. I love Ruby as teacher and Rebecca as student and Ruby's Grammy, too.
Ruby is still an anxious and nervous dog, but so lovable. Before she came into our lives, I was a cat person. Now I’m a Ruby person. I will never forget her healing powers as she sat at the end of my hospital bed that was in the dining room and waited patiently for me to gain strength so I could play with her again. May we all learn to wait patiently for the light to shine in these perilous times.
Ruby’s “Grammy” ( I sing to her, too!)