I made a mistake. I watched Wicked, the movie, before seeing the musical. What I didn’t realize at the time is that the film only tells the first half of the story. The second half will be released in a sequel later. That meant I was stuck in perpetual intermission.
Like many musicals, Wicked leaves the audience at a pivotal moment right before intermission. I remember sitting in stunned silence as the credits rolled. I felt heartbroken for Elphaba, who was punished for doing what she believed was right. The supposedly “good” characters turned out to be self-serving, and she was labeled wicked without reason. My head spun with the injustice of it all.
Sitting in the tension
I have lived through seasons where life didn’t feel fair. At times, it seemed like doing the right thing got me nowhere, while those who cut corners were rewarded. Watching Wicked–and being stuck in perpetual intermission–reminded me of how disorienting it is to sit in unresolved tension. It’s hard to hold on to hope when everything feels upside down and backwards.
Not long ago, I finally saw the full musical on stage. As the second act began, I could hardly wait to see how the story ended. I was going to experience the rest of the story. I watched the characters wrestle with their choices, experience redemption, and face consequences. The story found its balance. Goodness emerged, justice arrived, and I felt myself exhale. The world felt right again.
Clarity comes with perspective
One of my favorite moments in the second act is when a character sees something in a way that others don’t and says, “It’s not lying, it’s looking at things a different way.” That perspective shift struck a chord and reminded me of how powerful it is to be open to seeing life with a new perspective. For years, I believed my view of the world was the correct one. But once I opened myself to seeing other angles, I began to treat people with more compassion and respect. Truly, it opened my eyes to a world in which I found hope.
And maybe that’s the gift of being stuck in perpetual intermission: it forces us to sit with the discomfort, to question what we thought we knew. But when the curtain rises again, we’re often met with clarity, redemption, and a new way of seeing the story–and ourselves.