Braving the Thin Spaces

A Reflection on Borrowed Time, Belonging, and Becoming Myself

Six years ago, on this date, sitting in my breakfast nook, just finishing breakfast, I nearly shuffled off this mortal soil. Quite nearly so, in fact. It was, as near-death experiences go, remarkably undramatic. No fiery tunnel, no stern angel with a clipboard, no choral crescendo or flash of celestial light. Just a peculiar quietness, a thinning of the air, as if the world were holding its breath and waiting to see which way I would tip. I remembered being whisked away by the emergency responders thinking, I didn’t have time to put my dish in the sink!

There’s a curious stillness at the edge of eternity. Not frightening, not even sad—just… still. I remember having a conversation with God about what may come next. I didn’t bargain or plead for more time, in fact, I was surprised by my own sense of calm and acceptance of what is or what was about to happen.  But then again, eternity has never struck me as a place for theatrics. It simply is—vast, ineffable, and remarkably calm.

And then, after surgery and a year of rehabilitation, I was back. Back in my own body, back in the mess and glory of everyday life, with its bills and breakfast and bewildering email. It seems I was granted an encore—a second act I hadn’t planned for but have since come to cherish like a good slice of my late grandfather’s cornmeal pudding, or an unexpected letter from an old friend.

It is no small thing, you see, to return from the brink. One comes back with new eyes, or perhaps just eyes that see more clearly. The great spiritual traditions call such moments “thin spaces”—those rare thresholds where the veil between the seen and unseen grows almost transparent. And once you’ve braved such a place, life ceases to be a mere project to manage. It becomes something far more delicate and dazzling: a gift to be savoured.

Since then, I’ve made it something of a point to say yes to wonder whenever it knocks. I’ve stood on the bow of a ship in Alaskan waters, watched glaciers shimmer like ancient prophets, and felt the cold wind whisper secrets I still don’t fully understand. I’ve wandered the bright absurdities of Las Vegas, where neon signs compete with the stars for attention, and the message in the music came through in ways I hadn’t quite appreciated before..

But the most astonishing discoveries, I must say, have not come from travel brochures or bucket lists. They’ve come in the quiet spaces—between sips of coffee with a dear friend, in the hug of a child who doesn’t yet know how fast time flies, or in those rare and sacred mornings when I wake up and, for once, feel entirely at home in my own skin.

Which brings me, rather meanderingly, to the curious experience of being a sojourner in a foreign land. Not, mind you, in the literal sense—though I do enjoy a well-stamped passport—but in the deeper, more spiritual sense of never quite feeling that the world fits. You may know the feeling: as though you’ve arrived at a party with the wrong dress code, and everyone else received an instruction manual you never quite got.

I’ve spent years trying to “measure up,” whatever that means—molding myself into expectations like some anxious bit of Play-Doh, wondering if I was doing it right, or worse, doing it wrong. But somewhere along this borrowed stretch of time, I’ve begun to suspect that the true journey is not about arriving anywhere at all. It is about coming home—to oneself.

And there, in that quiet homecoming, peace has taken up residence. Not the grand, dramatic sort that’s written about in epics, but the kind that lets you breathe a little easier and laugh a little louder. A peace that doesn’t mind wrinkles or unfinished stories. A peace that no longer checks the mirror for approval or measures worth against the mile-markers of other people’s lives.

I don’t know how many more years I’ll have—none of us do, really. But I do know this: I’d rather spend them being wholly, delightfully myself than exhaust myself trying to be anyone else.

No more pretending. No more polishing the armour. Just me—odd, grateful, and wonderfully unfinished.

There’s a lightness in that, I think. A kind of quiet joy in living honestly, with nothing to prove. After all, when you’ve once stood at the cliff’s edge and glimpsed the vastness beyond, you stop worrying quite so much about the fuss and frills of this life.

You simply say thank you, and carry on.

So here I am—encore in hand, coffee in the other—still braving the thin spaces, still learning how to be here, now, with a heart full of wonder and a soul content to simply be.

And may that, perhaps, be enough.