Since mash-ups in the musical industry are the big hit at the moment, I fugured I'd jump on that bandwagon and attempt to mash-up some literature myself. Because, in the infamous words of my little sister, "why not?!"
As I lay dying - and this is a very metaphoric death, because at my latest check-up my doctor told me I have the health of a 30-year-old - I find myself rather than pondering the future, just waiting for Godot. Interesting, because as a pscudo-catholic, the kind that just follows the socially-accepted holidays and refuses to pay taxes to the institution, I do find myself praying to God to show me the reason for my sadness, to guide me out of it. To save me. Now, I don't want to say God has not responded - rather, I'm aware that I may not be listening. It is hard to listen to that which one does not want to accept or admit.
Waiting for Godot I have noticed that I have been waiting for a long time now. Always with a good excuse, always with good reason. Waiting for my husband to come home. Waiting for my kids to grow up. Waiting for my calling. Waiting for anwers. Maybe even waiting for questions. And the waiting is tiresome. Are you familiar with the Dr. Seuss book "Oh, the places you'll go"? In that book, he describes the Waiting Place. Everytime I read my kids that book, everytime we get to that part, I make funny voices and exaggerate the whole Waiting Place experience - for people just waiting. And then the next page has big, bolded. all-caps "NO! THIS IS NOT FOR YOU!" and this part always gets to me. The Waiting Place is not for me, yet here I am. How can I expect my kids to move mountains, like Dr. Seuss requests, while their mother is just waiting?
As I lay dying I realize that only a part of me is dying. Just one facet, so to speak. Endings always bring new beginnings, and this metaphorical death is but the gateway to a new beginning, to a new start, to a new life, to a new future. (Can one have an old future?) I am incredibly sad, sadder than I have ever been before in the last 40 years. I am lost. I am afraid. I am confused and angry and - did I say already that I am terribly afraid? Because I am. Yet there is no option but to move forward, face my fears and get back up to start again. And again. And again.
Waiting for Godot I find myself anxious with what the future holds in stock for me. What have I not done in the past 17 years that I want to do now? I remember making a promise 11 years ago that was broken for me - and then I broke it. I had promised I would never travel without my partner, but then my partner travelled without me and I thought, why not? So there have been several (three, that I can remember) times in the past 8 years that I have travelled alone, and I want to continue to do that. I will not cease to travel the world and go back home because of lack of company. I am good company. (I do not belive this today, as I write this. But maybe upon re-reading this, I will believe it.)
As I lay dying I realize that I do, in fact, need to (metaphorically) die. I do need to hit rock-bottom and let go of that dependant little girl who a decade ago put her head down and stopped being a leader to become a follower. That little girl, willing to serve and please and help and assist and take second place, does need to die. I am not a damsel in distress - I was, I was a damsel in distress and that version of me needs to die.
Waiting for Godot I can openly and honestly say it was not all bad. In fact, it wasn't bad at all (until it was). Wonderful things have happened and I am so thankful for them all. I'm not yet thankful for the bad things, it will take me a while to reach the level of maturity required for that. But I can so easily look back and see just the good. Just the happy. Just the nice. Just the love. A lot of love.
As I lay dying I mourn for all that will be left in the past. And while I am waiting for Godot, I will allow myself to look forward to the most unpredictable and unexpected of futures.
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