The Waiting Place — Kelley Davis

The other night, as I kneeled next to the bed, snuggled with my little three-year-old, Nathan, it was time to choose his bedtime story. He hovered over the collection of books, leaning inches beyond his teeny bed, browsing his selection. With crinkled brows and pouted lips, he puffed out long “ummmms” until he said, “I want to read ‘Oh, the Places Where you Go,” as he calls it. A Dr. Seuss favorite.

This night was the first time I had actually read the book, as it had always been read to me. The story took us on a tour of the many routes we often take in life: ups and downs, sideways and backwards, right ways and wrong ways. Nathan scooted under the covers, watching the path of a little Suessian character unravel, leading him to questionable places, happy and frightening places, and of course — nowhere.

Together, we followed the little Suess creature’s travels as he stumbled by way of foot and hot air balloon, until he reached the place of fiction that didn’t seem all-that fictitious — The Waiting Place.

“The Waiting Place…

… for people just waiting.

Waiting for a train to go

or a bus to come, or a plane to go

or the mail to come, or the rain to go

or the phone to ring, or the snow to snow

or waiting around for a Yes or No

or waiting for their hair to grow.

Everyone is just waiting.”

As I read the words, they forced me to wonder: What am I waiting for?

A sunny day for the perfect hike? Maybe.

A job in my field? Duh.

The fear of everyday adult life to subside? You bet yer assss.

‘Oh, the Places You’ll Go’ made me think. I thought of where I’ve been, where I’m going, where I am right now. It made me think about when I was little, like Nathan, and how much has changed — and hasn’t. It made me think back to my childhood swing set, one of the places I’d chosen to spend most of my time.

When I was a kid, I’d swing for hours in the back yard. I’d wake up at dawn and slowly glide open the sliding glass door, silently creeping out onto the cool morning grass that I’d feel beneath my bare feet — and swing. I’d swing til noon, between two trees, listening to the sounds of nature singing from the woods around me. I just loved the feeling: of being weightless; the motion; and even the light rhythmic creaking of the swing, which almost sounded like music. My swinging song.

Now, swinging makes me sick.

Like nauseous, and kind of uneasy, even though swinging is so incredibly reminiscent of my childhood. While it’s still as peaceful as I remember, I now fight the not-so-calming nausea that comes with it.

Things just change.

Last weekend, down the shore, I rode the double swings on the Ocean City boardwalk with little Nathan. I kicked off my sandals and watched them grow smaller as the ride raised us up, and once again, my bare feet dangled. As we spun, colors and sounds flashed around us so quickly I couldn’t settle my eyes on a single thing. The sounds of laughter and creaking and sight of the ocean and endless sky and blurred figures of people was overwhelming. I felt dizzy and a little lost up there, in the wide open air. But I was just spinning; something I used to do fearlessly; now with a faint pulse of fear; a pinch of nausea. But it still felt free.

I decided to close my eyes, just surrender to the air; the feeling. As the ride kept spinning — fast and then slower as we lowered to the ground — I couldn’t quite tell which direction I was going, but I felt OK. I wasn’t quite sure how high or how low I was, but I felt OK. And somehow, that feeling of uncertainty in the blackness behind my closed eyes was OK, too. And I wasn’t quite sick.

As I stepped down, finding the ground, gravity pulled on my thoughts. “I don’t really know exactly where I’m going in life, and that’s OK.” I might be a little older but not wise as I thought I’d be, and that’s OK. I don’t have the perfect job right now, but that’s OK, I thought. I will.

Being 27-years-old is strange. Being any-years-old really, is strange. But for me, 27 is the strangest it’s been, so far. At 27, I actually have a sense of time — like real, linear, spacious time — rolling out in front of me like a giant, magical carpet. And now I realize I’m riding that magical carpet into the unexpected and the predictable. I’m riding into the seasons and crashing into Mondays. I’m riding into the dark and winding roads and dead ends and blinding sun and beautiful landscapes, just like that little Suess character I watched navigate the pages. I just keep riding ahead, onto the next thing. And vacuuming, too, because I’m an adult now.

Maybe I’m waiting for the next thing.
Maybe I’m waiting for the fear to subside to start the next thing.
Maybe I’m just waiting for the next sunny day.

Maybe that’s just how being 27 feels. It feels like The Waiting Place. When you’re older, but waiting to feel wiser. When you’re waiting to get to that spot where you think you should be. And when you’re waiting for the permission to give yourself that it’s OK that you’re just not quite there yet. Inching towards 30, while comparing yourself to the world’s largest measuring tape of self-accomplishments (that you should have achieved by now).

But we’ll get to that place, eventually.

At 27, you’re at a place where you are no longer just watching others grow older, but get to witness how you’ve changed, too, because enough time has passed to actually see it. You’re at a place where you think, HOLY SHIT I’M GOING TO BE THIRTY, and you realize this aging thing actually applies to you, too. It’s a time when you start looking beyond graduations and college and into mortgage payments and interest rates and realizing oh-my-god-my-mom-was-pregnant-at-27 and start panicking about how you still can’t even fold a fitted sheet. Then you wonder how your parents did it, or how anyone does this thing called life.

This amazing thing called life.

Maybe The Waiting Place isn’t this age, it’s just where I happen to be at 27. Maybe you’re in The Waiting Place too, at a different age, for a different reason. Maybe you’re waiting for a sign to move on or stay. Maybe you’re wondering if the program you want to get into is the right one, or you’re mustering up the courage to quit your shitty job. Or waiting to get married. Or divorced. Or you’re wasting time standing on your tiptoes, with that giant measuring tape of pre-destined accomplishments, fudging the numbers to see where you stack up. Maybe The Waiting Place is just sort of a revolving door, one we enter and exit at different intervals in our lives, until we step back out into Dr. Seuss’ maze.

I hope we find the exit soon, and I think we will.

Just days later, after the swings, I am sitting outside under a tumultuous sky at my not-so-little-anymore cousin’s High School graduation, when I encountered another holy-shit moment: wow-remember-when-I-was-in-high-school? Nine years ago this same family was watching me graduate, and now I’m the one watching from the bleachers. Nine years ago, which somehow seems so incredibly long ago and not that long ago, either. Jesus, remember high school? Not really, I thought.

During the ceremony, blue skies fought grey, and lost. A downpour descended over caps and gowns, and umbrellas flicked open quickly like switchblades all throughout the stands. It poured and we stayed. And it stopped and turned blue again. Then it rained some more. The sky, acting more like an ocean — like tides of water and air — finally settled, and a double-rainbow appeared, just in time to receive their diplomas.

A double rainbow. No shit, I thought. How symbolic of the road ahead. You’ll find dark clouds and mud and sunshine and rainbows and sometimes, somehow, you’ll bare it all at once, just waiting for what’s next. In this crazy thing called life.

I watched “little” Alexandra walk across the grass, graduating from one chapter of life into another.

“Oh, the Places she’ll Go,” I thought, between the clouds and rainbows, realizing it isn’t just me.

I thought back to Dr. Suess’ words, wondering if we’ll succeed. Don’t worry, “Kid, you’ll move mountains. 98 3/4 percent guaranteed.”