Our Lilly, the Boston terrier, worships the sun. When we lived in Southern California, Lilly feasted on rays for 300-plus days out of every year. Banquets often featured long stretches on a patch of city grass she’d “fluff up” to the perfect billow. No trees, please! Leaves and branches blocked the sun and, with it, her joy.
Moving to the Pacific Northwest trimmed Lilly’s sun banquet to snack-sized portions. Microclimates run volatile in the Willamette Valley. At this higher latitude, winter sun skims the horizon. When late Fall pulls its gray veil over the dogwood and Douglas Fir, Lilly fluffs up her dog bed perch at the window and waits out the sun.
A shimmer parting a cloud bank lifts Lilly’s muzzle from the edge of her bed and wrings out a let’s-go-out bark. Often, the clouds will have swallowed the peek-a-boo sun by the time we hit the sidewalk. She’ll sniff the fallen leaves a bit, soaking up the bouquet of decay, then lead us back to our condo and all things warm. Her bed. More waiting.
On November 5th, Lilly’s waiting became her parents’ waiting. Our presidential election and ensuing drama have not unfolded to our liking. For a while there, a gray veil of despair hung above every day’s detail. Errands? Sheer drudgery. Favorite music? Abrasive noise. Strangers? Brusque and impatient. We’d lost our sun to life on the far side of the moon.
Since political seasons last much longer than meteorological seasons, we braced for a long siege. Meanwhile, Lilly waited in her bed by the window for glimmers of sun. Occasionally, glimmers opened to big blue skies. Bark. Walk. Sniff. Smile. Snuggle. Worth the wait, baby girl.
Lilly may not grasp the link between gray skies and rain and the lush landscapes trailing them. She may not understand how atmospheric rivers make so many leaves that eventually fall and die and brew tempting smells in the earth. Likewise, my wife and I may not always see how the gray skies of politics muster hope and vigor from suppressed voices. We may not always see the sun, but it’s still there when we choose to find it. In a steaming latte. In the snow-capped mountains. In the stranger who chases us down with the hat we dropped. In the doors we hold open for others.
To our Lilly, waiting is an action verb.