The bridge no one stops on
We learn early on to mind the gap. Mind the gap, they say, the distance between the platform and the train, something to be wary of, to step quickly past and never truly examine. The same often applies to the void we carry within ourselves. We mostly see it as something to get through or over, a bridge from what was to what will be. But we rarely stop and take in the bridge itself. Where we're going is more important than where we are, and along the way, we ponder as much about what will happen as we dwell on what has been.
But what really happens on a bridge in a figurative sense? Something ends there and something new begins, and precisely in between, something almost magical occurs, though we rarely take the time to notice it.
This space in between actually has a name. We call it the present, or the zero point, the only place that truly exists, for everything else is either a memory from the past or an anticipation of the future, thoughts that transport us to places our bodies are no longer in. You can only create, live, and experience right now. Yet, that's rarely where we actually are. The mind often rushes ahead or lingers behind, while the body, alone, waits in the only moment that has ever existed. The body becomes an anchor to return to, to find our way back.
Many have felt it, the gap, without truly knowing what they felt. The second just after hanging up after a difficult conversation and before thoughts catch up. The short, unreal space between falling asleep and being awake where you neither remember yesterday nor yet worry about the day ahead. Those moments usually feel unreal precisely because they are real, but a different kind of reality, unlike almost everything else we fill our time with.
The fear of the in-between is real. The unknown feels like a vacuum, insecure, formless, and the instinct is to rush through it as quickly as possible. Like riding an express train where the landscape outside passes so quickly that we don't have time to see or experience anything until we're on solid ground again. But what if it's precisely the opposite? What if we stopped on the bridge, sat down in the middle and looked out over the water, allowed the spiral of unease to settle, allowed uncertainty and fear, anticipation and hope, to sort themselves out at their own pace. Allowed the senses to express themselves instead of thoughts, to smell the sea, hear the lapping of waves, feel the wind on our cheek and look out over the horizon. Without thinking a single thing. Just taking it all in.
It is on the bridge that something new is actually formed. Not as a finished concept to arrive at, but more like a wishing well, a place where you are still free to choose what you want it to look like when you eventually reach the other side. Rarely does it turn out exactly as imagined, often it turns out a thousand times better, and that chance grows in proportion to how much space you actually give the in-between. And allowing the in-between to be an opportunity instead of an obstacle.
The image of the infinity symbol captures the same thing. One loop is the future, the other the past, but both always return to the same point in the middle. That point is what we call the present, or what is actually the present. It is also, if you follow the thought all the way, the space between two thoughts, the short space that arises when an old thought has settled and the next has not yet taken shape. How many of us have actually noticed that particular space? The mind rushes on like cars in rush hour traffic, a constant flow without enough silence to even ask if there is anything in between. We don't have time, because we are in such a hurry to think the next thought and react to everything it comes up with. It's a 24/7 job that never takes a break.
Moreover, the present is rarely just a single layer. There are several simultaneous entry points to it: the present of the body, the breath that always happens right now and never yesterday or tomorrow, the present of the senses—what one actually sees, hears, and feels in the moment without it being filtered through a thought about it. It is rarely thought that leads us there; it is too quick and too accustomed to commenting rather than just being. The breath and the body, on the other hand, are always already there, just waiting for us to notice them.
The ego, the part of us that constantly wants to understand, control, and name, rarely thrives in the in-between, for there it loses its grip. As long as thoughts control us instead of us controlling them, we flutter like a pennant in the wind rather than being someone who has the rudder of their own ship. It's an arduous way to live, for life is mostly spent managing what happens, instead of creating what is to come. One becomes a passive participant instead of an active creator.
So how does one notice the gap? No one can force themselves into the in-between; it's not something you can achieve through effort, because the more you try, the further away you get. It's more about ceasing to think and rush around in your head—easier said than done. Not to stop thinking as an action, but to stop grasping at every thought that arises and let everything be exactly as it is without labeling it. Then the noise eventually subsides, and what remains is not the circus in your head, but something more still underneath. And what one perhaps truly means by being in one's true nature, to feel and experience the soul.
Suffering rarely diminishes because life becomes easier. It diminishes in proportion to how much time we actually dare to spend in the in-between, on the bridge, in the present, in the only moment that has ever been real.