Midlife Meditation

Getting out of limbo was messier than I'd hoped. To be fair, it's almost miraculous that this didn't turn into a colossal cluster cuss. Having a final interview in Reynolds the day before I was supposed to report for in-service in Banks, not even knowing the result until lunch time on that in-service day, then figuring out how to do justice to my first days in Reynolds without completely abandoning my Banks students was just the tip of this transitional iceberg. I knew it was creating a headache for the Banks administration, and if there's one thing I hate doing, it's making life harder for others. I've never wanted to be a bother. I don't like leaving a mess for anyone. I police my campsites not just for my litter, but for those of previous campers. I put the lid down on the toilet. I put my dishes in the dishwasher rather than the sink. I would bus my own dishes at restaurants if it was allowed--and if it didn't mean taking someone else's live...

Full disclosure: I have never limboed. But I do know a thing or two about being in limbo. I have often found myself trapped in transition, not knowing what the future holds, desperate for resolution, stuck on a tritone that simply will not resolve. It's the waiting place, the most useless place a human can be, rendered all the more uncomfortable by a hefty dose of anxiety over what's on the other side. Waiting for the test results, waiting for the judge's verdict, waiting for the excrement to hit the ventilator, the other shoe to drop, the phone to ring--it's never pleasant, even when good news may be in the pipeline. When there's a strong chance of bad news, it's far worse. It doesn't even have to be anticipated news that amps up the angst. When I was nine, I broke my right arm in a ridiculous accident involving a badminton bird, a slide, and a garden hose. My parents put my arm in a makeshift sling (which might have been made from my Cub Scout necker...