Today I had coffee with my American friend Russ again. After days of depression and crying about everything and nothing, I was in a space of hollowness. Once again, my friend was able to bring levity and humor to me, along with long conversation about an array of topics, nothing in particular yet so helpful to my soul. Some people bless our lives with laughter and levity, helping us to see that things may be bad, yes, you may be nearly suicidal, yes, and yet. There is still a place where you can find the absurdity, and the laugh inside the pain. The ancient Greek masks of comedy and tragedy are as true today as they were thousands of years ago: we humans are a mass of contradictions, a mess of emotions and random musings, a cloud of thoughts which come and go in an endless display of confusion.
Then I start thinking: Maybe if I got serious about meditation. I know people who swear this helps them with their entire lives, gives them clarity and a sense of groundedness. Or maybe if I found the Truth, like the people who swear by the New Testament and feel so secure in their knowledge of the Father and the Son and their assured place in Heaven. Or maybe I could take up running around in the forest, like so many Danes do everyday, all those endorphins would kick in and I would magically feel like a New Woman! I could get a new lease on life completely. Or maybe take a course, like some people do, about finding my Shadow Self and wrestling with her (or him) until I had conquered that dark demon living inside of my soul, and find peace that way. Or what if I took up my friend’s offer to give me a free cranio-sacral session. He guarantees it will cure my depression. Then again, I could just take up drinking big glasses of red wine every night, that might do the trick, and at least help me sleep at night. On the other hand….
Some of you literary, theatrical types may know of the play Waiting for Godot, by Samuel Beckett. I have just finished reading an analysis and history of this play, but ironically didn’t realize that the book didn’t actually contain the play itself. So now I am waiting for the actual play to arrive to the library for me to read. This play was written in 1955, first performed in Paris, eventually making its way to the British stage. It was a breakthrough in contemporary theatre, single-handedly changing it from ‘Modern’ to ‘Post-modern.’ It is essentially the story (or you might say, non-story) of two tramp-like characters, Vladimir and Estragon, who are waiting for someone called Godot to show up. The entire play is basically about the futility of Life, an exploration of how we human beings spend our lives in search of, or waiting for, Something or Someone who will come and save us, will help us, will explain to us what the hell this crazy life is actually about. In the end, all the audience gets is a lot of musings about nothing in particular, by people who do nothing in particular, and nothing much happens. Existential to say the least. Right now, my soul echoes this sentiment of waiting for I-don’t-know-what, for an explanation of I-don’t-know-what, by God-knows-who. Every day I think and hope that something will happen, something amazing that will change everything. So that things Make Sense. So that there is meaning to life. And, each day, nothing changes. I am living out my little version of Waiting for Godot. It is very peculiar.
After I read the play itself, I will write a post about what I find out. Until then, I guess I will simply watch life’s passing parade go by around me. And try to find a laugh in it, no matter how absurd.