The universe is always keeping me on my toes. And with an ironic sense of humor too.
Less than a week after I posted this, about the relief of KNOWING when my divorce will be done, I got an email from my attorney. She is going to be out of town on the 8th. So will everyone in her firm. We need to reschedule the hearing. We are back again at the mercy of the scheduling desk, needing to seek consent from Juan to change the date, having to jump through hoops and coordinate schedules. It seems way too complex to me and yet it is nothing other than what it has always been, a messy, complicated path.
We have a new date penciled in, but this time round I have realized that it is just that, a time when something may or may not happen. I can see clearly now…
I have to say, now that the frustration has eased, I am chuckling about the universe and me–teacher and student. And I am musing that I am stubborn in my unwillingness to learn this lesson I get taught again and again. There is no such thing as certain.
I am the remedial student on a journey to learn to live with uncertainty. But even as I write this, I see a more positive way to cast it. My mission is to learn to live with possibility.
The new date, which may or may not be my court date is February 22nd. It is quite possible I will be divorced on that day–that I will find sweet sweet closure. It is also possible that I won’t. It is possible that a snowstorm will close the court. It is possible that my attorney will fall ill. That the judge will not show up. That the date won’t actually get scheduled.
It is also possible that the divorce will happen and I will realize that I had closure long ago–or that closure is still weeks, months or years away.
It is equally possible that something else magical, interesting, wonderful or heartbreakingly sad will happen on that day, or tomorrow, or in the next five minutes.
Come to think of it, I’d hate to think that because I was fixated, focused like a laser, on waiting for something to happen that I missed the magic.
Here is a little confession. I am the type of person who, when the mystery novel gets a bit too suspenseful, when my stomach is tied up in knots, looks at the last page. I never read the whole last chapter–I don’t really want to know exactly how it ends–but I want a clue–a little bit of information to ground me. Flying along, not knowing, makes me a bit queasy.
And yet, this is my journey–to learn to fly without knowing where I will land. To be comfortable soaking in the story with its wild twists and turns without knowing the ending.
So many times, when the mystery of my own life is getting just a bit too suspenseful, I say a prayer. I pray that when I go to sleep that night I can have a dream–a dream that will give me a tiny taste of what I will find on the last page–a dream that will assure me that it will be alright. And every morning I wake a bit disappointed. No matter how rich or vibrant and downright fascinating my dreams may be, they never have predictive power. And in fact they are often downright confusing.
Really, in the end, there is no way to find out what is going to happen, other than to live it.
And in fact, if I am honest, I already know the closing line of my story anyway. We all do. Mine will say this: “And in the end, she died. She lived a life but now it was over.” The magic, the beauty comes not in the storybook ending, but in what it takes to get there.
Knowing the ending, really, does not change anything. Knowing the ending does not make the journey any less difficult. Certainty is overrated.
So once again, I turn to my teacher, my life, the Universe and bow with humor and humility. “Thank you” I giggle, a little bit amused. “Thanks for reminding me”.