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How did I not know Rack has Adidas? Cuz there's always something new.
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Plus join the Nordy club to shop new arrivals first. Unlock exclusive discounts and more. Great brands, great prices. That's why you rack.
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I'm Maggie Smith and this is the Slowdown. A few months ago I spoke to Ann Tashi Slater, author of the book Traveling in the Art of Living in an Impermanent World. The concept of bardo in Tibetan Buddhism refers to the interval between death and rebirth and the intermediate state between birth and death. But it also refers more generally to liminal periods in life, in between times, the times when we're neither here nor there. Anne and I talked about bardo in relation to marriage, divorce, and other big life transitions. We talked about how change in life is the only constant, and how much suffering can result from resisting change and grasping for something we cannot have. Permanence. Thinking about it now, I realize how much waiting is a kind of bardo waiting on test results from a doctor, waiting for a jury to deliberate and make a decision, waiting for a ruling by a judge, waiting for a call after an accident or a disaster, to know your loved ones are safe. The waiting is a kind of purgatory, a middle ground in that liminal in between space we alternate between hope and fear. Some despair might creep in too. Everything will be okay, we tell ourselves. One minute the worst has happened, we tell ourselves the next. Even the metaphors for waiting are deeply uncomfortable. Treading water, being on pins and needles, or on tenter hooks. Waiting is hard on the body because it's hard on the mind. Today's poem captures the torturous waiting for news, good or bad, in that purgatory when life as the speaker knows it hinges on a phone call. This is a poem by Wyatt Townley, Waiting for the call. I am not the girl after the party waiting for Boy wonder, not the couple after the test awaiting word, not the actor after the callback for the job that changes everything, not the mother on the floor whose son has gone missing. I am the beloved and you are the beloved. We are all beside ourselves as the phone is beside ourselves. One hand grips the menu, the other covers the eyes. Now the phone rings. It is singing on the table to the dog across the room, to the waitress who is waiting, to the cat on the carpet, to the couple in the next booth. But the heart is in the cupboard, breaking the dishes. The Slowdown is a production of American Public Media in partnership with the Poetry Foundation. To get a poem delivered to you daily, go to slowdownshow.org and sign up for our newsletter. Find us on Instagram @downdownshow and blueskylowdownshow.org.
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Foreign.
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Maggie Here, host of the Slowdown Listening to and reading poetry helps us find our footing in an uncertain world, especially during challenging times. You can help keep these moments of poetry and reflection going by making a gift today. Visit slowdownshow. Org, Donate.
Episode Title: Waiting for the Call I Am by Wyatt Townley
Host: Maggie Smith
Podcast: The Slowdown: Poetry & Reflection Daily
Air Date: January 14, 2026
This episode centers on the experience of waiting—those tense, liminal spaces before the unknown becomes known—explored through the lens of both everyday life and poetry. Host Maggie Smith reflects on the discomfort and universality of waiting, connecting personal insights and Buddhist philosophy before presenting Wyatt Townley’s poem “Waiting for the Call I Am,” which artfully captures this all-too-human sensation.
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Maggie Smith brings contemplative warmth and empathy, framing even uncomfortable truths within poetry’s gentle acceptance. The episode uses simple yet profound language, balancing personal and universal reflections. It’s a reminder that waiting—in every form—is a shared, almost sacred part of being human.
If you haven’t listened, this episode weaves Buddhist philosophy, everyday anxiety, and poetic imagery together to validate the anguish and hope of waiting. The poem, by rejecting specific stories, assures listeners that while our circumstances may differ, the ache of anticipation is something we all carry—bound together by that ringing phone, suspended in our own tender bardos.