This past weekend, I saw a one-man show at the Guthrie about Samuel Beckett, a writer I’ve come to love more and more. I was glad I had decided to wait to have a beer until after the show, because it took every brain cell in me to follow the brilliant man’s words and whims.
I still didn’t get it all, and I’m not going to feel bad about that, because I don’t think even Beckett got it all. But oh, how I appreciate a human being who is ready to go toe to toe with the big questions, like who are we? What are we doing here? When, if ever, will God show? Or what if God was that guy we met yesterday? No, it couldn’t be.
Could it?
The morning after the play—as I was making my English muffins and readying my Irish butter and homemade strawberry jam to slather on top—I returned to thinking about the play.
Two things happened. First, without even trying, I dropped into deep presence, noticing the soft yellow hue of my butter, contrasting with the shiny, red jam.
I saw the coils inside my toaster burning with light.
I felt the cool counter underneath my hands as they rested on top of it.
I breathed in. I breathed out.
Suddenly, Beckett’s words floated into my head, the words that have been my mantra for years now: Begin again. Fail better.
This time, as I recalled his words, I was struck by something that had never occurred to me before. It isn’t begin again and do better. Or even be better.
It is begin again and fail better.
Does this make Beckett a pessimist? That doesn’t feel like a stretch, since his writing often feels full of existential dread and despair.
Does it make him a realist? We are human and imperfect; therefore, we are bound to fail.
What if it makes him an optimist? What if he knows we need permission to fail and fall and flail? Because that is what we are bound to do anyways, so why not make our foibles our fortes?
What if his is a call to romp through crisis and confusion? Ooh, does that have my hackles up, because we need to be serious when big things are happening, right?
To romp means to move in a brisk, easy, and playful manner.
What would it look like to move into and through crisis with a sense of play, which usually means we have no particular end in mind?
I’m not saying we should want to stay in confusion and crisis forever, but we usually have a pretty strong sense of how we want things to turn out, don’t we?
And how often do we get so freaking frustrated when that doesn’t happen?
And we push and we rail and we fight and we wail.
What if we stop.
And breathe in.
And breathe out.
And put some butter and jam on some toast.
And eat in the still dark morning like it is a holy act.
And wonder what to begin.
And how we might fail.
And how we might play.
And how we might live now and then, here and there, next and never, always and ever.
beckett is someone i have always intended to read and haven't yet, somehow. he was sam shepard's favorite writer and so patti smith mentions him frequently as well.
you have just provided the push to urgently do so - and to consider the romp. thank you.
just curious - what was the play you saw?