In life, as in literature, there are beautiful gaps of meaning. Sometimes they are intentional, at other times spontaneous. A writer leaves for us gaps to complete the meaning according to our own life experiences; sometimes she has the answers, but often the writer herself doesn’t have the answer.
For me, one of the small delights of life are exactly those gaps in meaning, the spontaneous and the intentional. The problem begins when our brains refuse to leave these gaps, and insist on giving them meaning, especially in our interactions and relationships with people we care about. We spend hours trying to figure out what did he really mean when he said something, did her hand brush mine accidentally or was it intentional what will happen now. And while we literally waste this precious time on thinking and figuring out these gaps, we are actually missing on the beauty of what we already do have with that person. And what we do have is often just enough at that specific moment.
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Just an intimate, light, spontaneous touching of two bodies, lying side by side on the wet grass, in the dark, listening to the sound of the waves of the Haifa sea, talking, listening, laughing. Cigarettes, wine, and friendship.
Just enough.
Just perfect.
Just beautiful.
Beautiful gaps of meaning.
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Writing in the Margins 