I'm waiting for someone.

The cube next to mine is empty. The denizen moved to new york. It has sat empty for a couple weeks, file folders neatly piled in the corner unminded by the replacement, while employees dropped by occasionally to snag a coat rack or a pencil sharpener -- the fate of any abandoned cube.

Now a cleaning crew is attacking the neglected cube-- I can smell the windex, and hear the banging of the drawers. The rest of the floor is nearly abandoned... I can hear one other keyboard clacking, and two people chatting, their voices growing softer as they head for the elevator.

I'm waiting for someone. I want to start something, some task or chore, but I also don't want to have it interrupted. I tidy my desk for the first time in weeks. I check Amazon for new recommendations. I look over my numbers for a presentation; but waiting precludes good thinking. I can't do much but wait.

Time moves incredibly slowly now-- 7:02, 7:08. But I find this slowness precious and not painful. All day I've rushed, meetings folding into hastily accomplished tasks, back into meetings. Open excel, photoshop, homesite, word, email, calendar, make a phone call, repeat....

Now I am waiting and it's like a meditation. I want very little, except the amazing stretch of this now. I'll sit, maybe get up for a cup of tea, and sit some more.

Reading your post... I couldn't help but be reminded of,

I Am Waiting
By Lawrence Ferlinghetti

To funny... so what did you get from the empty cube?

Do you meditate in general?

If not, I can recommend it :-)

(I hope you had a good mind-break).

Best, Benjamin

a coat hanger and yes.

best not lolly about any longer or else I fear your P&E rating will go down at BlogShares, in which case I'll have to dump you. But, thinking positive: I've got a mint riding on you!

Jesus, I can't believe how good the writing has gotten on this blog of late. Now I feel bad for the stuff I said last summer. Lately Christina's been outdoing herself with every post - and what an interesting mix it is of intellectual insight and soft, wistful, sad, momentous awareness of the precious now. I find that this blog has become the one I link to the most often. I've got two posts linking back to this blog on my front page right now, and one of them is, apparently, among the top 20 on my site, the one that links to Christina's prose poem "I need a new constellation"

http://www.krubner.com/index.htm?articleId=311

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