The view from “not quite yet.”
A few weeks ago, I suggested we head to see the wildflowers in the Antelope Valley. The California poppies bloom across the hills of the desert each spring, leaving the world blanketed in orange. I had never been out that way, Kels hadn’t been since he was a child. He was sure we were too early for the blooms, but I was itching for adventure, so we packed into the car and off we went.
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He was right, we were just a tad early for the blooms. The day was windy and cool and most of the early poppies that had shown their color were curled up (fact: poppies curl up in cold and windy weather). The poppies weren’t ready- not quite yet.
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I was disappointed when we drove up, you could tell from miles away that the hills were not aflame with poppies, but were rolling swells of yellow. The poppies weren’t here – not quite yet.
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And as I reflect on this season of life in which I’ve found myself, I think, perhaps, it has been a season of – not quite yet.
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For me, lately –
Are you settled? – not quite yet.
Have you transitioned jobs? – not quite yet.
Have you planned for her education? – not quite yet.
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And if I’m honest, it feels as though we’ve been in a season of not quite yet for quite some time…
Is the business where you want it to be? – not quite yet.
Are you feeling better (pregnant)? – not quite yet.
Is the baby here? – not quite yet.
Are you sleeping? – not quite yet.
Have you found a routine? – not quite yet.
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The “arrival mentality” feels ubiquitous in our world. We define ourselves by what we’ve done, what we’re doing, where we’re going. We seem to only be as good as the list of titles or accomplishments next to our name. Actions are deemed worthy and productive so long as they are getting us to the next point – the next degree, the next job, the next promotion, the next relationship.
And yet, I think we spend much of our lives in the space of not quite yet. Where we don’t have — the degree - the job - the gig - the relationship – quite yet.
This space where the poppies aren’t blooming, and the hills are their average color, and the wind blows, and the tumbleweed passes.
This space of eating the next meal, and taking out the trash, and meeting a neighbor at the mailbox. The space of clocking in, and of attending meetings, and of scheduling appointments. The space of “I need to call her back,” and of “did he text me back?” and of “does next Tuesday work?” The functions, the responsibilities, the day-to-day.
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Currently, my view from not quite yet:
A little girl, Elmo in hand, asking for the hundredth time to go outside and [literally] smell the roses. A husband in scrubs, returning home, empty coffee cup in hand, a broad smile on his face. A face in the mirror with bushy hair, and bags under her eyes, and a sparkle in them, too.
This view? It’s one of the out-of-date Linked-In profile. Of piles and piles of boxes. Of “how can the hamper be full again?” Of remnants of block towers scattered across the living room floor. Of a laptop in the passenger seat, and of writing from the parking lot while she sleeps. Of teary swim lessons and “yay”s for my floating babe. Of a husband repairing a door, a floor, a window (and this is how the hamper is full again ). Of bubbles, lots and lots of bubbles.
The poppy fields are yellow in the space of not quite yet; and it is here, among the mustard flowers that I find myself.
And maybe this place is sacred.
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Because maybe it was never about arriving anyway.
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Maybe it’s about the joy- the one that surprises us, creeping up from inside when we stop to take in our view. Maybe it’s about the people - those who help us grow, those who we fall for, those who fall for us, those who teach us – through their lives, through their advice, through pain, through love. Maybe it’s about other people – the ones we love, the ones we serve, the ones we share our gifts with- our lives with.
Sometimes that means it is about the job, the relationship, the promotion. For our dreams and our goals and those things we want to “arrive” at, they’re (mostly) good, and necessary, and important. Other times it is about tending to the space we find ourselves once we have arrived. And sometimes it’s forgetting about arriving all together. Choosing to live with the questions, without the answers - among the tensions of the unknown- in the yellow.
The poppy fields in full bloom are stunning.
But then they’re gone. And we must wait again, until next year.
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The good news? The yellow hills are stunning, too. Worthy merely for their existence.
The really good news? We are, too.
