Doing the Limbo

When I was a kid, the Limbo was a funny song that had a ridiculous dance to go with it.  Adults and children both would bend backwards, hands not touching the ground, and try to skim under an ever-lowering pole without touching it.  Funny to listen to, to look at, to do.  As I grew older, I was taught that limbo was a sort of holding cell between heaven and hell, a place where one bided one's time until somebody, usually God, made a decision as to where you were to land.

These days, I think of limbo as a space of frustration, having gone through one doorway but not yet entered another.  It's been said it's hell in the hallway, and that I do believe.

Limbo is a state of suspended animation sitting on a foundation of powerlessness.  There is nothing that can be done at the present time to alter one's position in the quagmire of the unknown.  I suppose that, then, is the crux of it.  I want to take charge, make something happen or not happen.  I'm a pull-yourself-up-by-your-bootstraps kind of girl.  I get things done.  I get results.  Limbo puts the kibosh on all of that.

There's the rub, dearies.  Reality dawns.  You've never really been in charge.  All of that business may have served you well in the past, but the idea of truly being in charge of anything has been an illusionary safety net.

When limbo knocks you on your backside, you hit the ground hard.  Taking inventory of what is and is not, the realization that faith and a nickel is about all you've got in your pocket, and a nickel doesn't buy you much of anything, peace of mind in particular.

Holding fast to that faith, you know that you will be able to deal with what comes, whatever that might be.  It's still hell in the hallway, but perhaps it's not quite as dusty and dingy there as you first perceived.  It's certainly not as lonely.  The Light still shines.