Sand Lent Day 16

I made reference to our Drama matric set work, 'Waiting for Godot' in yesterday's blog. It is very much on my mind at the moment because every day I have to dip down into the existential landscape of the play with my matrics - who also currently seem to find themselves in an endless word of waiting.

I suppose it's the nature of things at the moment - our lives are controlled by the Godot of Levels. At present we know we're on level 1 but we don't know what the new level 1 entails because we are waiting for the new protocols to be published. And at some point we have been told that there will be a third wave and again we will be left waiting for instructions on how we will have to live our lives then and at what level.

For those of you who are not familiar with the play, 'Waiting for Godot' has been described as a play in which nothing happens, twice. It is about two tramps waiting on the side of the road for Godot to arrive. And he never does. During their wait they try and create ways to pass the time. It is an incredibly repetitive and heavy play to study. At some point in the play two people arrive - Pozzo and Lucky. Lucky is Pozzo's slave and, as in all Absurdist Theatre, their relationship is a very bizarre one where we are given the impression that Lucky choses to be Pozzo's slave, despite the dehumanization and degradation he faces, because he want to impress Pozzo so that Pozzo does not sell him at the market.

Lucky has a rope (think noose) around his neck and he has to carry all of Pozzo's bags and paraphernalia and he is never allowed to put it down. Towards the end of the play one of the tramps asks Pozzo what is in his bag and Pozzo replies - 'Sand.' 

There are moments in this play that grab you. I was 17 the first time I studied it and it has continued to pop back into my life over the years. And every time I read it something new pops up. Today it was simply the word 'sand'.

In the existential moment of the lesson it suddenly struck me - what am I carrying around that is a complete burden and entirely useless to me? And perhaps, even more importantly, what burdens am I forcing other people to carry around for me?  In an instant several things came to mind. Things that I refuse to put down despite the harm they cause me. Things from my childhood that have completely been resolved by the adult me but are still very much harbored by the child Emily - and this does happen. No matter how much therapy we undergo as adults, some childhood things never let go of us fully. 

I have a very distinct list of 'sand' things in my bag. Off the top of my head, I hate being left out of things. FOMO is a very real burden to carry. People make jokes about FOMO - mainly because it's a funny sounding word that encapsulates a certain kind of person - but FOMO can be a very debilitating sand to have. (Huh, I've created a new term). It is very hard when you base a sense of your self worth on whether people chose to include you in something or not. And the problem with FOMO is that it can sometimes be totally irrational. Some people truly take offence that they were not invited to their varsity digs mate's second wedding (despite the fact that they haven't seen said friend since varsity)  - and it's a wedding where only family are invited. Its a tough world out there for us FOMO extroverts. Unfortunately for Stephen (who would quite happily not attend any unnecessary social functions ever again) sometimes he has to help me carry my sand. When I feel left out he has to try and understand why my feelings are hurt despite the fact that he is inwardly sighing with relief that I'm not going to force him onto the dancefloor at my third cousin twice removed's 60th birthday.  

To be honest, I probably have enough 'sand bags' to well up a river. One can get into the mire of an existential crisis fairly swiftly with a little bit of encouragement from the absent Godot. 

It was literally at this moment, when my matrics and I were discussing the baggage of sand, when my phone pinged. 

The message I received was from a friend well versed in the art of waiting. She suffered for years with endometriosis and the deeply painful fertility battle that accompanies this terrible disease. Through the miraculous intervention of medicine, she and her husband were able to finally conceive a baby and their little boy is honestly one of the most joyful faces you can show me. I just love everything that his earnest face represents about the act of waiting. But for me this little face speaks into a different narrative - the story of Waiting for God. And it is an entirely different story.  

The message she sent was to tell me that she and her husband had decided to commit this year to resting in God. In being still and trusting they were hoping their prayers for a second child would be answered. Three weeks later she discovered that she has fallen pregnant naturally. Their miracle arrives in September.

I cant help but smile at God's timing. There I was, stuck in a moment of self-flagellation, turning myself into a Lucky, burdened under all my bags of sand when He came in and in a moment reminded me of everything that is possible. As the song goes - we are no longer slaves. This is incredibly freeing. 

It means that the load that He carried up onto that hill was my sand bags. It means that when He said, 'it is finished' he was untying the noose from my neck. And on the third day the thing we had all been waiting for finally arrived. God turned up. 

I spend an unnecessary amount of time waiting for moments that will fail me. Waiting to resolve childhood scars. Waiting to stop being who I was intrinsically made to be  - FOMO and all. Waiting for things to turn out the way I planned them to. But, as my dear pregnant friend showed me today, all I need to actually do... is wait for God.