The Causeway, Remembered
Some thresholds are not crossed once.
They are carried.
Causeway
The road narrows.
Then the light.
Water on either side
holds the sky.
The body slows
without instruction.
Stone does not open.
It waits.
Your shoulders lower.
You did not tell them to.
Inside, distance lengthens.
Breath slows.
Figures in shadow,
mid-gesture,
balance undecided.
Movement has not happened—
and yet the air knows.
You step back.
Out of courtesy.
Rain arrives.
Leaves.
You carry away
a change in weight.
What Remains of the Causeway
Not the stone.
Not the water.
The slowing.
The way the body
learned to wait
without being told.
Light resting
where it fell.
Time
unshouldered.
You stood.
That was enough.
Now—
elsewhere—
rooms move too quickly.
Yet sometimes
your foot hesitates.
Your breath
does not follow at once.
The causeway exists.
You know this.
What is gone
is the measure
that held you
and let you remain.
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There are moments when the world refuses to become personal. The rain falls on the day you needed sun. The illness does not pause because someone is loved. The sea does not soften because a child is afraid. And when the thing prayed against happens anyway, it can feel as if the world has abandoned us. But perhaps what has failed is not the world’s care. Perhaps what has failed is our idea of care.
Continue Reading
If this piece found something in you, you may wish to continue the journey elsewhere.
On The Lantern Chronicles, I gather writings from Angkor, myth and legend, contemplative essays, and poetry — works shaped by silence, beauty, wonder, memory, and the deeper questions that follow us through the world.
It is a place for stone and story, reflection and vow, shadow and revelation.
You would be most welcome there.