If you arrive at the Arctic in the middle of winter, you will spot rows of male emperor penguins standing straight up or huddling together, braving temperatures that descend to -20 degrees and 120km/h winds. Under them lies a single egg, laid months before by their female partner, whom they met singing in their ancient breeding grounds, which are hundreds of kilometres inland. After laying the egg, the female is exhausted and underfed, and she must travel to the coast to feed herself. In a delicate gesture, she passes the egg to her partner and entrusts the hope of new life to him. From then onwards, he waits, sometimes for months. By the time she returns, the male penguin is exhausted and has lost more than half his weight; he knows that if the female doesn’t return, his egg won't survive.
For two months, the penguin waits in faith. There’s something about the stillness of this animal- his fragile, determined wait stays with me. I’ve come to recognise that posture in myself, though it took years to learn.
Waiting is maddening. It is wanting something and having no control over when or if it will come to you.
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