The Space Between


Is there space between moments?

If there is, what is it called? How does it feel? Could you ever get there? I don’t know, but I think that I yearn for it. I think the space between moments might be the shape of yearning. The space between the moments is the color of yearning.

We find out we are drug forward by a longing for the next moment, for arriving. Perhaps what is more true is that we always exist in the space between the moments.

We are always hoping to arrive.

What if the space between the moments isn’t there. What if we only feel like it is because we don’t feel there? If we look at the world around us, we are surrounded by a contradiction of things. A winter of this and that. This or that. Neither this nor that. What if what sets our hears longing isn’t the space between the moments, but the flavor of moments themselves.

It is spring all around me today, but the air is cold. The flowers are vibrant, but the wind cuts through jackets we no longer want to wear. I am leaning, heart and soul, toward the length and breadth of warmer weather, but, just now, we are faced with cold. Still cold. Just be still.

Are we caught between or where we need to be?

Just to be weird, what would the color of longing be? What would the space between moments look like. Would it be eggplant purple, scarlet, goldenrod? Would it be the soft blush pink of the early spring blossom? Or would it be grey, dusty blue, or industrial beige? Do we get to choose?

Today is full of questions. Perhaps it is because this is Lent. Once again I submitted to the ashes, and now I am knocked side-wise, full of questions and longing. For?

I don’t know.

But the longing isn’t industrial beige. Oh no. It’s fresh cream, lit pink by the rising sun. Delicious, fleeting, nourishing, stretching.