The Space Between Two Thoughts

“It is not down in any map. True places never are.” ~ Herman Melville

In the morning before thought becomes hyperactive, I try to row over to a small island. I call it “The Space between Two Thoughts.” Everyone is given ownership of such an island and each owner sees it differently. Most of the time, though, the atmospheric conditions keep it shrouded in fog. It remains a bit of a mystery as to whether you will actually find it at any given time.

Once I remember it exists (and this is not always possible either), I hop in my dinghy and row in its direction. If I am lucky enough, I stay long enough to actually get out of the boat and sit there in silence for a brief period of time. This is a true confession. Sometimes the boat takes on a life of its own. It turns around and drifts right back to where I came from.

This island space contains everything I need and nothing I want. Desire dies quickly here because silence is so rich and full. The island makes no claim on me and it is inescapably lonely. No man can tame its solitude.

It doesn’t care a whit about me. The mirror of my mind fogs over and nothing stirs but my heart. This is the secret that the island saves, the secret of rebirth. Once I die to the mind, the heart of the island begins to beat with music. My blood recognizes that I belong here; my mind never can.

Sitting in solitude, I remember that I was born alone and will die alone. I have no control over anything. I owe no man. I belong to no one. The island is my true home.

My wild nature lies deep within the island’s core. I have yet to penetrate it, but that doesn’t matter. I honor it by getting in the boat and rowing until I reach it. All religiosity long ago disappeared from its soil. No ego can survive its mystical air. “As for me, I die daily.”

Once I return home again, my daily life on earth resumes its persistent claim on me. If it were not for the island, I would have perished long ago.

Vicki Woodyard