![]() However, the act of communication is predominantly governed by the use of language. We can converse, we can write, we can even sing and we can also use physical interaction, whether it be affectionate or cruel, as a means of communicating with one another. And each other.Modern Irish Drama ‘Waiting for Godot’ by Samuel Beckett “To what extent does Waiting for Godot offer a commentary on the difficulty of communication? ” Communication is defined as the imparting or exchanging of information by speaking, writing, or using some other medium. If God and the afterlife ends up being some imagined construct, at least we have this moment. There is hope and comfort in the idea that in our suffering, questioning, or waiting, we are in good company. With six billion people on the planet, we are not alone. But the thing I missed all those years was this: even if God – or some dude named Godot – never shows, neither man is alone in their waiting. Waiting for Godot reminds us that the existential crises of the human heart have not abated. I reread Waiting for Godot recently – because what goes better with a global pandemic than dystopian theatre, am I right? – and I realized something new. But if real transformation requires real waiting, then that time was never lost at all. Anything to avoid being in the depth of the moment, to make up for the lost time of quarantine. We overfill our minds with news, our bellies with food, our days with obligations both real and imagined. A choice to stay awake, even when there are no guarantees that what we desire will appear. It is’t checking out of our lives, but an intentional checking in. Perhaps we must pause to really see, to be truly awake in our lives. It isn’t lying on the couch and groaning. The word waiting arises from the Old English wæccan, meaning to watch or to wake. Like the daffodil bulb in the dark winter soil, God calls us to wait. Transformation requires time in the chrysalis, in the belly of the whale. Waiting without the promise of closure or resolution, waiting solely for the sake of cultivating patience and trusting the transformation process. More and more, I”m seeing the pandemic as a season of waiting. Fast is better and faster is best.īut life is not an instant fix. We have entrained our bodies to match rhythm with satellites and wireless connections rather than seasons and the waxing and waning of the moon. Why should we wait until some prescribed hour to enjoy the latest episode of our favorite show when we can stream the entire season in one sitting? We’re addicted to the adrenaline rush of convenience and forward movement. We can get our Amazon packages the next day and our GPS is defaulted to the quickest route, not the long way around. We glorify instant credit scores, high speed internet, quick oats, 30 minute oil changes, instant messaging, life at lighting speed. Humans worship at the altar of the immediate. There is value in waiting, even when the outcome is uncertain. I saw the play a decade later and finally thought I understood what Beckett was suggesting. Those two idiots are wasting their lives waiting on some unknowable future. “Huh? I still don’t get it.” She put her head on her desk, and groaned. “That’s the point Erin! Should we wait for something solely on faith, even with no guarantees that what we are waiting for will come to pass? Beckett is asking us to decide if it’s all meaningless or if there is value in faithful waiting.” “ Aaaarrrgggg !” (No one aaaarrrrgggged better than Mrs. Temple grimaced, clenching her hands into fists as if beseeching the heavens to give her the strength needed to get to retirement. “What are they going to do if He doesn’t show up?” Mrs. They ponder suicide and basically decide that life is meaningless. The two men have this circulatory debate about whether Godot is going to show and what they will do if he does – or doesn’t – make an appearance. The setting is a single dead tree, so the reader is unsure if it takes place during winter or after the apocalypse. For those who haven’t read – or seen – the play, it involves two characters named Vladimir and Estragon who are waiting around for this other guy – Godot – to arrive. Īnd then she had us read Waiting for Godot, the depressing, existential play by Samuel Beckett. ![]() I have her to thank for Their Eyes Were Watching God, Slaughterhouse Five, and Brave New World. Sarcasm was her love language and I adored her talent for recommending the exact book I needed at that point in my life. Temple loved Kate Chopin as much as she hated the smell of watermelon chewing gum. In 1987, I was assigned to Laura Temple’s Freshman English class.
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