Look to the clock on the wall, hands hardly moving at all

I'm currently in a waiting phase. I don't really dig it. Okay, I hate the waiting part. There's anticipation, fear, anxiety, hope, dreams, caution. A million things. Right here. My instinct is to storm in, make my purpose known and blaze away with answers while 'We are the Champions' plays in the background. Instead, I wait. Ever so unpatiently. But, if anything leads me to prayer, it is this. This unrest, this hope, this wait. I pray and wait for answers that don't seem to be coming, for peace that seems elusive, for a dream that remains but a dream.
I was reading in Ecclesiastes tonight. The part about a time for everything. (Ecc 3:1-8) It seems that in each section, I like one of the options and don't so much care for the other. I like the time to be born, not fond of the time to die. Digging the time to plant, not so the time to uproot. Loving the healing and building and laughing and dancing and gathering and embracing. Not so much the killing and tearing and weeping and mourning and scattering and rerfraining. Yet, I know that I must have both. I must have the waiting as much as I must have the movement. The loss of one or the other results in a deficit. So, I wait. Here. I wait.