The After

Crossing the long bridge from there to here

Before you hangs a rope bridge, swinging in the wind, unsteadied by human hands. You are alone. Others have been here, of course: the strangers who crossed ahead, the workers who strung the cables and laid the wooden planks. But now the bridge is empty, suspended in time between here and there. Before and After.

Behind you stands the dark woods you have left. The forest you crossed, unwanting and unwilling but walking, pushing through to find your way out. The slope grew steeper than you expected, the trail dwindling, the muddy soil slippery beneath your feet. At the river’s edge you try to catch your breath, heart racing, mouth dry. It has been a weary journey.

Beyond you lies the unknown. Another dense forest, wilderness thick as the woods you are leaving. But the ground looks mossy; the trees show softer shades of green. By being the Beyond, it brings a glimmer of hope: not the same. What comes next will not be what was.

You carry nothing with you, only the clothes on your back and the boots on your feet. No companion, no map, no walking stick. Your hands grasp the weathered posts at bridge’s end. You eye its length, skeptical of its strength, faded wood rotting, twisted ropes frayed. Is it up for the task? Are you? Can you trust it will bear your weight?

Daunted, you breathe deep and pull back.

The river rushes below. The only way is forward.

You take the first swinging step.

//

Now you are between borders, between lands, between worlds. The middle grows tenuous, tremulous. Shaky and uncertain, step after step.

You move against the current, cutting a perpendicular course across the river. One careless misstep, one weakened plank, one withered rope, and nature’s forces will yank you in other directions: beneath, below, beyond.

All you can do is keep going. You cannot stay.

As you go, you grow dizzy from the motions: the hypnotizing current between the slats, the trembling planks beneath your feet. You hear the wood creak, the ropes squeak. Each footstep is a prayer, insistent against the instinct to turn and run—because there is nowhere to go once you are between.

This is liminal space: not-here, not-there. Where borders blur and the veil thins.

Halfway across, at the lowest point where the bridge dips closest to the water, your anxiety peaks. The weavers who braided the ropes and tugged them tight, the loggers who felled the trees and sliced the wood—were they skilled and strong? Will their work hold?

A thousand scenarios flash before your eyes: falling, breaking, sinking, drowning.

You start to panic, scamping toward the incline. Did the others fear like you, the travelers who left behind muddy footprints to lead the way? The ghosts who came and went, and now it is your turn. You cannot pause to imagine what they met on the other side, whether it was better or worse than what they left. You must keep moving.

//

When your feet reach the riverbank, gratitude meets the ground. Hands on knees, muscles burning, you pause, pulse thudding in your ears. Here begins the After: a place of possibility, a fertile darkness. Could it bring life, above your head or beneath your feet?

The After is rain-washed and storm-scrubbed. It gleams and glistens as sun returns. The After is dappled, not one thing but mottled many, crossed by dusty shafts through thick canopies above, a cathedral of light. This is a gathering place at river’s edge: where water meets soil, light bends shadow, cool melts to warmth.

No voices cry out here. The echoes of unseen others have faded long ago. Many feet have worn this path, but there is no guide, no experts in the After. You will be surprised as you go—squirrel scramble, rabbit dash, the silent leap of a startled deer. The After is wilder, freed from the intensity of the crossing, far from the innocence of Before.

Part of you longs to stay here, to settle and dwell. More of you knows you will cross yet another border—bridge, river, or highway—to another Beyond. For now you do not know what waits ahead: you are only getting your bearings, studying the shadows, listening to birdsong, marking the sun.

As you step onto another path, well-worn but new for you, it is the soft dirt below that keeps you going. You have learned the humility of humus, how earth-smell grounds you in ancient dust. You breathe in the heavy scent, thick with soil’s promise. You are opening to all of it, the help that comes from creation and Creator.

Branches will still fall here. Towering trees will tumble. Storms will rumble and roar. But this ground brings new terrain, gentler hills, the heart-skip of hope.

You watch the hawk swoop, the songbirds flutter, the eagle soar, and you are lifted.

//

Days will come when you forget the bridge, when the memory of Before fades.

What matters is not only that you have crossed, but that you have lived on both sides. You know more of the wilderness, before and beyond. What you have seen, what your body has layered into muscled memory, is enough. You have been changed, corporeal and cellular. Here is where you relearn how to live, both a subject on the move and an object at rest, a contradiction in terms.

Belonging is no longer your primary concern, nor protection your primal instinct. Survival is what you need, stark and simple. Because whether you are alone or among, how long you have here determines all the rest. This brutal clarity brings strange peace. Sparseness and solitude are the gift of After. You get space to sift through what happened, to sort out what comes next, to watch your wounds scar and your strength return.

You have known enough of other lands to make your way. You do not need to strive or succeed or stake claims. You simply need to be—in ways at harmony with the world around you, creation and its creatures. The After is quick-crossed by those who neglect its power, and you are not one of them. You will stay.

The After is over and not-over. It is an unfolding. The trail may wind narrower, shorter, or darker than what you have walked before, but fear does not lurk in these shadows. You left much behind when you crossed over.

You are here to live.