I have been in-between for so long that I don’t remember being anything else.
Life seems to be at the cusp of everything and nothing and I am always right in the middle. I go to yoga, but I am not still a beginner and yet so far from being a yogi. My poses are improving, but I still can’t touch my toes.
I am a meditator, but I still can’t sit for longer than eight minutes. My brain bounces around from topic to topic and some days I just can’t seem to find the energy to sit.
I am not at the start of a career, but nowhere near the end. As a matter of fact I seem to vacillate from one job to the next so much that I am left spinning at the end of the day. I get pretty good at these trades—massage therapist, interpreter, teacher, writer—but I haven’t mastered any of them completely.
I am not married, but not divorced. I am separated. I am not with anyone, but not really single.
It seems lately I am trying to find where I belong and where my identity lies.
I am all of these and yet none of them completely. I am in-between—that etheric space that has no label, no name. While labels aren’t supposed to be important and stereotypes are looked down upon, but used, I find myself sometimes wishing I wasn’t in-between.
When the moon is hanging low in the dark sky, and I see it’s light outlining the clouds, and I have a moment of stillness and quiet mind, I wonder where I will be when I’m no longer in-between.
Will I be a yogi? A writer? A therapist? A single mom?
Where do I fit and where do I belong?
Some nights I wonder if maybe, I belong in the in-between.
This cloudy space of everything and nothing, happy and sad, present but unnamed. Lonely at times, but not really alone either. It is here that I float about without an anchor to hold me down.
Lying in wait in the periphery, people swarm about in their own places. I see where they belong, and sometimes think maybe I can find a spot in their world.
But for now I will wait in the interlude, suspended in the halfway point. Here is my home in-between.
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Ed: Cat Beekmans