I’ve been watching the buds on our plum trees—watched them pout at the sun, watched them sulk, plump and pink, waiting for the ripe moment to burst into laughter. I thought to myself, when that happens, tiny green Japanese nightingales might visit. And when that happens, it means the air might just begin to warm a little. I cannot wait for that!

There’s a kind of waiting that pricks and pulls, heavy with its own heartbeat, restless and undone, but that’s not the kind I’m thinking about today. Today, I’m thinking of the kind of everyday waiting that smiles in promises, whispering, “almost, almost.”

This is the kind of waiting Japanese people know well—the kind known while standing in line outside a particular restaurant for a particular dish (it can be a perfectly ordinary dish), and the wait becomes part of the ordinariness. It’s the kind of waiting done in leisure, with quiet anticipation, because its end is within reach—just there.

Patience in waiting is woven into the pace of Japanese life, and it’s something life here has taught me to flow into. Waiting is not necessarily an inconvenience. It can be a moment to catch up with a friend, or, if I am alone, a moment to breathe, think, daydream, rest, or simply give in to boredom. There’s a shared stillness in waiting the Japanese way—a shared calm, a restrained anticipation, and a quiet understanding and respectfulness in the waiting itself.

I’ve been watching the buds on our plum trees. They burst into laughter—blooming in frilly pale pink clusters that rise in delicate puffs along the leafless, dark branches. I am still waiting for tiny green nightingales to visit. When that happens, it means the air might just begin to warm a little more, and I cannot wait for that!