My friend Shel is a baseball fan. The other day she shared the spring training countdown: 38 days until pitchers and catchers report. Now it’s just 33 days.
Yesterday I was commiserating with another friend about this weekend’s predicted ice storm. “The forsythia will be budding in six weeks,” I said.
“Crocus,” she added. “Snowdrops.”
It’s what we do. Especially in winter.
Anticipation isn’t the same as wishing the days away. It doesn’t push or pull. It’s not impatient. Anticipation is about savoring what’s yet unseen. The first pitch. The first flower. Knowing it’s coming.
It’s seasonal. It’s cyclical. It’s daily.
Anticipation is why the most satisfying cup of coffee for me is the one I have to brew and wait for. Aroma wafting through the house. Nothing I can order at a counter quite compares.