There is a scene in the Wizard of Oz that has stuck with me for the last 30 or so years. I watched this movie as a child (on VHS, baby) and was absolutely terrified by the Wicked Witch of the West — so much so that I insisted on sleeping with a cup of water on my nightstand, just in case she decided to leave Oz and visit a five year old in Brooklyn. Anyways, I will forever have the scene of her locking Dorothy in her dungeon with a giant hourglass filled with red sand burned into my brain. At one point, the Wicked Witch of the West dramatically flips the hourglass over before leaving Dorothy locked in there, letting her know that the hourglass represents how much time Dorothy has left to live. Cue the flying monkeys.
I can imagine myself being 70 and this scene til living rent free in my brain. (That and “I’ll get you my pretty, and your little dog, too.”)
It has, in a way, been a good representation of how I’ve lived much of my life thus far. For years, I acted like I was in some sort of race — against time, or myself, or both — as if I had to check off as much as possible from my life’s to do list before… the sand ran out, I suppose. As if if I didn’t get to something soon enough — didn’t grasp the thing I was looking for or felt I needed to achieve, didn’t reach whatever goal seemed critical — then that would be it. I’d miss the one magic thing that was the key to a happy future or a good life. That my time would be up, and it would all be too late. Game over.
I’ve wondered if that incessant urge to do everything all at once before someone tells you you’ve run out of time is an innate response to living with a chronic illness, or if it’s just a good old fashioned personality quirk, akin to indecisiveness or a tendency to hoard stickers rather than actually stick them on anything. Regardless, I’ve struggled with this idea that I can possibly lose my chance to become the person I’m meant to be or do the things I’m *supposed* to do, and been at odds with the philosophy that everything happens for a reason. I believe it, but I’m still impatient. I’ve connected the dots behind me and realized stuff does eventually make sense in your present and yet I still occasionally find myself creeping around corners, eyes peeled for that hourglass. Anxiously wondering how much time I’ve got left to figure this life out, ready to argue with anyone who tells me we don’t have to always be at the wheel — that eventually our winding paths will feel purposeful or intentional anyways, as long as we keep taking steps forward.
Similarly, when I first lost my mom, after I got over the initial shock of it all, I soon found myself in a rush to feel connected to her. I had this inexplicable belief that if I didn’t figure out a way to feel her presence or notice a sign from her in my life as soon as possible, by an arbitrary date I’d set in my mind, then some brick wall would go up and lock her away from me forever. I’d loss my opportunity to remember her or keep her in my life in some sense… even though, obviously, she was already gone. If there was some hourglass involved, that guy had already hit empty. My grief therapist at the time had eventually reminded me of exactly that — I couldn’t lose her twice, so there was no invisible finish line or mysterious deadline to hit, and that if I wanted to feel her presence or be open to some big sign that she was looking over me, I could and would, no matter what day of the week or how much time had passed.
There’s that quote, “What’s meant for you won’t miss you.” I think it’s such a lovely sentiment, and while I’ve definitely repeated it to other people, I’ve sometimes had a tough time believing it deep down. I’ve slowed down quite a bit, particularly since the pandemic and losing my mom — stopped acting like I’m being chased and have to prove something before I’m caught — but I’m often still scared that I’ll make the wrong decision or somehow miss an important opportunity because I didn’t work quickly enough, didn’t try hard enough, didn’t do enough.
I’d like to accept the idea that you can’t miss the things (or people or jobs or whatever) that are destined for you as truth, though — adopt it as a way of existing in the world. It feels like a more generous way of living.
This week, I heard that quote a couple of times — in a workout class, on a podcast — enough that I started to feel like maybe the universe was trying to remind me of something. Has that ever happened to you, where all of a sudden, it seems like you’re hearing the same message or theme over and over again in your days, from seemingly random, unrelated sources? When it does, I tend to pause and wonder if that’s serendipity, or if it’s actually the universe trying to hit me over the head with some lesson. I tend to believe it’s the latter, and actually, it’s a nice thought.
if it’s meant for you, it won’t miss you — in more ways than one.
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As I reached the end of this essay, I started to wonder to myself if I’d written something similar before, when I first stood this newsletter up. If I did, and you’re getting a repeat, I’m sorry! What can I say — I’m forever haunted by some of the same ghosts. 🙃 I appreciate you being here, though — so much — and would be remiss not to say thank you for the kind messages and notes after last week’s essay. SO, thank you. 💛
If you’re in need of a good book, stop everything and go buy or borrow Happy Place, by Emily Henry. I just finished reading it at the beginning of this week and I loved it so, so much. I sobbed at the end and honestly am not even sure why (it has a happy ending). xo
Thanks for reading,
Joelle
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