The other day I caught up with a friend for dinner. We shared stories of the weeks that had past since our last date, our conversation remaining fairly light-hearted. Later, as we walked towards the street corner where we would head off in our respective directions, our conversation delved deeper. We started to talk about the real stuff – my struggles with my conservative family on account of my queerness, his adult experience of parents divorcing. It was raining, dark and cold. A pedestrian crossing bleeped every so often, cars rushed by, and then the pedestrian bleeped again, an ongoing loop. We continued to chat, for some time, and then took off in opposite directions.
As I walked toward the bus, I reflected on that moment spent on the corner. It was an in-between moment in many ways. The environment did not call for any specific kind of custom, no procedures, niceties or politeness. There was no need to speak in hushed tones, for example, when I told my buddy about how my acid trips had helped with my anxiety and childhood trauma. In those in-between moments, I often find myself becoming raw; either within myself or with the person or people involved in the experience. It is a space without expectation, and what needed to bubble to the service, does. In-between moments, like the morning after a big night out spend with friends smoking a joint, or lying in bed after having had amazing sex with your partner, or exploring your mind as you wait in line at the supermarket; they’re lovely moments, but are difficult to describe as they’re kind of a non-event. I’m writing about this for no reason in particular, simply to highlight my appreciation for these little snippets of time to which I often pay little attention.