Waiting

I had a dream last night. I was following a wilderness path, struggling over mounds of dirt, around thorny bushes, clawing my way along a chain-link fence, finally reaching the edge of a placid lake across which stretched a causeway made of green grass. I wanted to get across that causeway to the far shore, but I was afraid the lake would rise with the tide and swallow the path, leaving me to drown. I followed a group of faceless, genderless people who were further along than the path than I. They didn't see me, but they led the way. I followed them out upon the causeway, running after them along the green grass, my heart in my throat. The water began to rise! They were running ahead of me, appearing to run on the surface of the water. They marked the route. I splashed, I waded, feeling the grass under my feet and the water swirling around my knees. I was almost to shore when the water came up, and I was swimming for my life. I thrashed and gasped, a few more feet, and I made it. I pulled myself up onto the far shore, safe.

How's that for a dream, eh? The perfect metaphor for my dissertation struggle—my life struggle—with a happy ending. I triumphed, albeit soggy and terrified, but I triumphed. I hope I remember this dream later, when I am faced with the pressures of living, working, waiting.

My dissertation chairperson gave me an ETA: feedback by Thursday of this week. My landlord will be ready to tear out all my windows and replace them on Thursday and Friday. Two momentous events that terrify me. I can't change either one. All I can do is wait. So, I'm waiting.

What do you do while you are waiting? Let me guess. You probably get out all those projects you've kept on hold for a time like this, your rainy day projects. Your mending, your deep cleaning, your writing and art projects... now you efficiently set to work. You probably hum while you do this. And at the end of the day, you have some fruit to show for your labor. Or at least some clean cupboards and hemmed pants.

Well, let me tell you how the chronic malcontent waits. I fret. I stew. I muddle around in the wreckage of the future. I seek a new past. I'm anywhere but in the present, that's for sure. I listen to music that inspires me to madness (Associates, the Buggles, Gary Numan, Bill Nelson, Depeche Mode, and of course, the Monkees, because it reminds me of Karen, who died). I write in this blog. I'm so self-absorbed I can hardly breathe.

I know the solution. To get outside, and outside of myself, to do something for others. I helped my mother add minutes to her new Tracfone. I went for a trot in the park. I kissed my cat. I thanked the sun gods for burning off the low clouds and leaving clear, blue skies. And I remembered my dream. Waiting can feel like shite, but it can also be fertile ground.