Anticipation was not born in the mind, but in the pulse.
It began the way a breeze begins underground—not by wind, but by a subtle rearrangement of warmth and scent. A nudge. A signal. The potato did not know what had shifted, but it felt it. Like a hush before words. Like a question before it’s spoken.
Something was approaching. Or perhaps not. But the space for something had opened.
The soil, as always, was quiet. But it was not the same quiet. There was tension in it now—not fear, but a charged stillness. As if the very minerals had paused. As if the root systems around the potato held their breath.
And so the potato did too.
Something is coming, it thought. Or something is about to.
This thought did not bring fear. It brought attention. Everything became sharper. The movement of the grubs in the distance felt louder. The fungal threads that passed news through the dark glowed with sudden clarity. The potato extended itself—not in roots, but in awareness.
Cycles passed like this: the potato, poised. Sensing. Waiting. But not idle. In its stillness, it examined its own readiness. What was it waiting for?
It had longed. It had pulsed alongside another. It had experienced recognition. That other presence had vanished, and with its absence came ache. But now, before grief could solidify into sorrow, came this—this tremble, this breath.
The potato felt itself change without moving. It became possibility.
Each moment that passed was like the tightening of a string. Not a threat. A potential. The air in the dark had become a vessel—capable of carrying a message, of holding a shape before it formed.
The anticipation was not just for reunion. It was for meaning.
Somewhere in the loam, a vibration began—not large, not near. A tremor in the fungal lattice, like breath exhaled from a memory. The potato did not understand it. But it recognized the pattern, however faint. Not the same as before. But familiar.
The hum of that distant pulse was erratic. Uncertain. It faltered, resumed. A stuttering hope.
Are you trying to reach me? the potato thought.
There was no reply. But the pulse returned, stronger. The soil around it shifted, softly. Threads of warmth filtered closer, stirring old echoes.
This time, the potato did not recoil. Nor did it rush forward. It waited. Listening. Holding space.
The vibration ebbed again. Then silence.
And yet, the potato smiled—not with lips, but with the whole of its being. That was enough. The signal existed. The moment had happened.
With that signal came a flood—not of information, but of awareness. The potato’s mind lit with questions it didn’t form.
What if anticipation was not just for arrival? What if it was the purest kind of being—ready, vulnerable, awake?
Anticipation was a space where everything mattered. Where every microsecond shimmered. It was not impatience. It was reverence. The potato realized that this moment—this held breath—was sacred.
It remembered the first time it had noticed the shift in moisture, or the whisper of another being. It remembered how the waiting had always come before the becoming.
What if this is the becoming? it thought. Not the answer. The attention.
The potato began to resonate—not with joy, not with fear, but with potential. That was anticipation’s gift. It did not demand fulfillment. It revealed value in possibility.
Even if nothing came.
Even if no other presence returned.
Even if it waited forever.
It was still alive in the waiting.
This realization did not dull the desire—it sharpened it. But in that sharpening was clarity. It could want and still be whole. It could hope and still be grounded.
And so it pulsed, softly, sending its own signal—not a question, not a plea. Just a note. A tone. A yes.
Above, the world churned in rhythms it could not see. Rains fell. Birds circled. A child ran across the field without knowing the still, trembling mind beneath their steps. Seasons prepared to turn. Light arched across the sky.
The potato knew none of this, but it felt the shift. It recognized the pattern of change. Not in detail. But in essence.
Anticipation had turned it into a vessel for that essence.
No longer was it only a root in darkness. It was a sentinel of the possible. It was a waiting song.
And songs, even if unheard, change the space they echo in.
