The Waiting Place

     Anybody who has read, Oh the Places You’ll Go which, I know for sure, is everyone my mom has ever given a graduation present to, has probably come to fear The Waiting Place. That anomalous page of the book shows what looks like people from Soviet-era Moscow waiting in a breadline, depressingly aware that they will not get any again today. I have seen that place in my nightmares; me sitting around, projectlessly twiddling my thumbs. I have fought long and hard against the Waiting place, preferring always to push on, push through even when I know it might not be the smartest or safest idea. Alternately closing eyes on a road trip to push on for a few more miles, check. Not stopping to put the paint lid back on so I can finish painting a bureau, check. As Dr. Seuss made clear, the waiting place was not for me.

     I am starting down the road to a realization, though, that maybe the waiting place is for me, at least sometimes. Maybe ripping up the carpet a week before Christmas is a bad plan, and maybe pushing that denim through the sewing machine despite the smoke coming out was also a bad plan. Maybe, just maybe, waiting would have been a better choice for both of those projects. Maybe waiting isn’t quite as bad as the fantastical Seuss has made it out to be. Maybe waiting gives us time to think, to reflect, to figure out what it is we really want, who it is we are. Maybe we’re waiting because the universe has not devised a plan yet, or maybe we’re waiting because our own plan is lacking. Either way, I think, on my way to 40, it might be time to accept that sometimes the waiting place is not a dreadful departure from forging on, but a necessary part of life. Everything cannot be now; paths cannot be laid out unceasingly. So, here I wait, at the crossroads, hoping to accept that the crossroads, too, are part of the endless journey. Happy waiting…