I, like everyone else in the world, have spent the year waiting. Lots of cliche phrases come to mind: "waiting for my ship to come in," "waiting for the good times to roll." Actually I feel I have been waiting for Godot.
Samuel Beckett's two-act play was written in 1948-1949 and featured two characters, Vladimir and Estragon, who were waiting for someone named Godot. Godot never comes. The play ends with them still waiting. The play was open to many interpretations from spiritual, political, psychological and existential.
I have been trying to stay patient while waiting for Godot. I have binge-watched every Netflix movie that friends recommended. I have patiently shredded files I kept in storage boxes for years. I have sold and given away appliances, silver, clothes, and collections. Waiting in 2020 is like watching grass grow. I envy those who used the time to create — those upbeat souls who pulled out the knitting needles, the crockpot or the artist's brush to create a masterpiece. I don't have a masterpiece in me. I find it hard to put a pen to paper.
Now that 2021 is here and waiting has at last produced some results, I find myself relaxing. Not that my ship has come in or that good times are rolling, but I see a glimpse around the corner of what I have been waiting for: a glimpse of hope, a remedy, a healing, a more civil, caring, empathetic time. Godot is coming bearing gifts for us all.
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