You are here but not fully present. You vacillate between the past and the unlived future, believing happiness lies ahead: in a new town, when you finally meet your lover, when you secure that dream job or admission to grad school. You’re merely existing here and now but anticipate truly living when you reach that elusive "there," wherever it may be.
One time, you feel truly present in the moment, a surge of energy coursing through you as your mind recognizes the obvious. You notice the strange new hairs on your body, the odd way your mouth moves as you chew your meal, and the peculiar taste of the fried egg with the bread. You pause, chewing, as the realization crystallizes in your mind: you're here now; you exist in this very moment.
You hear the buzzing of the refrigerator and feel the dust settle on your table. You watch an insect crawl up the wall and notice the browning tint on your white wall. Pausing, you take in the faint reflection of your face on the screen of your laptop, realizing how much you have changed: the sharpness of your jawline, the thicker and fuller beard that masks this new muscular constitution now recognized as your face. It's all different, familiar yet different.
Continuing to chew, your mind becomes a beam desperately searching for clues to define this moment of mindfulness, this heightened sensation, this presentness. You try to absorb it all, to memorize the feeling, for you can't recall the last time you felt this present or made any plans to enjoy the moment. It seems all you do is endlessly postpone your joy and defer your happiness. There is nothing to celebrate in this moment of waiting; it's merely transitory. You hope that soon, you'll step into the real world you have been dreaming about. Here and now, nothing is exciting; everything lies ahead, and until you reach that point, each day is transient.
Now, you are learning to become aware of the many miracles happening at this moment, even as you wait for later. Even as you await the main blessing, much is already happening. The big breaks will come; there's no need to postpone living until then.
That evening, you take a walk. For the first time, you notice the actual color of your gate—it's a shade of blue, not green as you've thought all this time. You feel yourself walking down the street, feeling your legs carry you into the road, the sunlight warming your skin, the solidity of the ground beneath your feet. You insist on preserving this moment in the recesses of your mind, wanting to remember being truly present, how it feels, and what it's like. For a moment, you wish to halt your anxious thoughts about tomorrow, about what you could be doing and with whom, and simply savor where you are already. To gaze at the sky without purpose, to smile and wave at passing children, to idly chat with a neighbor.
It's a miracle to be alive, to be present, yet it seems that many have become so accustomed to being alive that they fail to recognize what a blessing it truly is—the sounds, the sights, the music, the faces, the warmth, and the strange rhythm of consciousness surrounding them.
For many like you, existence feels like dwelling in liminal spaces—transitory, neither here nor there. It's like being in a hallway between two rooms, where nothing remarkable happens. No decorations, no seats, no beds. No one wants to linger in the hallway; it's simply a waiting point, a path leading to somewhere else. Here, no plans are made, no investments are advised; it's transient, so why bother creating memories?
In the hallway, no one notices anything—the new painting on the wall, the plant vase, or the toys lying around. Most of the time, people scroll through their phones as they navigate this place.
This is how it feels, existing in liminal spaces—feeling like you need to pause your life, feeling like you're not yet living, feeling like something needs to happen before you can start living.
And time passes by. Flowers bloom and wither, the sun rises and sets day after day, the earth absorbs rain, and trees shed their leaves, yet you remain stagnant.
But soon, you will learn that life is already happening in the present, that everything that is meant to happen is already happening. You are here, learn to be here. Shun the elusive and idealistic there. Step out and feel the grass beneath your toes, engage in conversation with your neighbor, wave at children, and chat with the old men by the roadside.
You will eventually reach the other room, but now, ensure you feel the floor beneath you, take in the paintings, and touch the walls as you walk through the hallway to the next room.
Reading this now feels like divine providence. A beautiful work of art finally pushing me to live HERE and not there🥹
I am neither here nor there. No do I anticipate finally being here at some possible point in the future.