Dispatch from the edge of meaning.

Oh, The Places You'll Go

"Today is your day.

Your mountain is waiting.

So... get on your way."

- Dr. Seuss

I loved, loved, loved reading Dr. Seuss's Oh, the Places You'll Go! to my kids when they were younger. I read it so often I can still recite it verbatim from memory today. It has the rhyme, the humor, and the cleverly disguised life lessons that make Seuss brilliant.

But even back then, I felt a special sort of "ick" about one specific part of the book.

I recently re-read it with the same pleasure I always used to. But then I reached the part about The Waiting Place.

And suddenly, I felt very, very seen.

Which was a bit unfortunate, because nobody likes discovering they have accidentally become a long-term resident of a fictional holding area.

But there I was, listing a whole list of things I was waiting for:

Waiting for the right medicine to kick in.
Waiting for the right specialist to actually have time to help me.
Waiting for clarity.
Waiting for certainty.
Waiting for people to choose me.
Waiting for me to finally choose me.

Because the insight wasn't just medical. That just revealed the pattern.

"I kept waiting for life to choose me. The real work was choosing myself."

The Permission Paradox

I realized I have spent way too much of my life waiting for permission.

Permission to start. Permission to choose. Permission to prioritize myself. Permission to leave situations where I will simply never be enough.

And the hardest pill to swallow: just like in Seuss's story, nobody comes to rescues you from The Waiting Place. Nobody arrives, hands you a golden ticket, and says, "Good news. I've finally chosen you."

The only way out is that you leave.

Even when you don't have a map and you don't know exactly where you're going.

You leave because you've finally realized that staying is costing your soul too much.

Stepping Out Without a Commemorative Mug

Saying, and actually feeling:

"It's time for me to stop waiting."

...sounds like the beginning of a new chapter.

And chapters are awkward things. They usually begin long before the previous story feels fully finished. We humans would prefer a neat ending. We want closure, a certificate of completion, and perhaps a commemorative mug to signify we survived the transition. Life, however, rarely seems to cooperate in that way.

Instead, I just realized I've spent long enough in The Waiting Place, and I just stood up. Because as it turned out The Waiting Place charges terrible rent and offers absolutely no scenic views.

And so I found myself rereading a children's book and being reminded of that same curious, hopeful promise of adventure that the mere sentence "Oh, the places you'll go!" still gives me.

The goosebumps steer my soul right out of The Waiting Place.

And therefore I say:

With my brain in my head and my feet in my shoes,

I will steer myself in any direction I choose.

Today is the day.

My mountain is waiting.

So...

I'm getting on my way.