A few weeks ago I wrote about Wisława Szymborska's beautiful poem Distraction, in which she writes about how we so often ignore the extraordinariness of day-to-day being and fail to engage fully in our lives.
With her poem Life While-You-Wait (another favourite), she instead sheds light on the moments when we do recognize the “privilege of living”, and yet feel “ill-prepared” for it. After all, knowing the fleeting nature of our experience doesn't immediately spring us into living more consciously --- in reality that knowledge is more anxiety-inducing than anything else.
Szymborska reflects on this struggle we all face to participate fully in life as it comes, without being consumed regretting the past or anxiously anticipating what's ahead. The metaphor that she uses for this existential theme builds off of the first stanza of another of her poems, Nothing Twice, in which she writes:
Nothing can ever happen twice.
In consequence, the sorry fact is
that we arrive here improvised
and leave without the chance to practice.
Life While-You-Wait is similarly a moving ode to life’s thread of unrepeatable moments, and an invitation to embrace the improvisation that they demand.
I often (almost always) feel “ill-prepared” for everyday life, as if other people have received an advanced script and stage directions while I fluster about wondering ‘What scene are we in?!’. I’m sure everyone feels that way from time to time.
And yet the reality is that none of us have any idea what’s about to happen – what exactly our role is or when it might end. Szymborska's only comfort is that we’re all in the same unpredictable play, but while we spend time trying to prepare for rehearsal, it goes on without waiting.
So her advice? Be present --- and break a leg.
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Life While-You-Wait by Wisława Szymborska
Life While-You-Wait Performance without rehearsal. Body without alterations. Head without premeditation.
I know nothing of the role I play. I only know it’s mine. I can’t exchange it.
I have to guess on the spot just what this play’s all about.
Ill-prepared for the privilege of living, I can barely keep up with the pace that the action demands. I improvise, although I loathe improvisation. I trip at every step over my own ignorance. I can’t conceal my hayseed manners. My instincts are for happy histrionics.
Stage fright makes excuses for me, which humiliate me more. Extenuating circumstances strike me as cruel.
Words and impulses you can’t take back, stars you’ll never get counted, your character like a raincoat you button on the run — the pitiful results of all this unexpectedness.
If only I could just rehearse one Wednesday in advance, or repeat a single Thursday that has passed! But here comes Friday with a script I haven’t seen. Is it fair, I ask (my voice a little hoarse, since I couldn’t even clear my throat offstage).
You’d be wrong to think that it’s just a slapdash quiz taken in makeshift accommodations. Oh no. I’m standing on the set and I see how strong it is. The props are surprisingly precise. The machine rotating the stage has been around even longer. The farthest galaxies have been turned on. Oh no, there’s no question, this must be the premiere. And whatever I do will become forever what I’ve done.
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