There are “bridge” moments.
They rarely occur, but when they do you will find yourself deeply touched and deeply affected. I treasure bridge moments. They change us.
A bridge moment occurs between two people during a conversation, it can take on different forms, but you suddenly find your heart skipping a beat as another human being speaks your mind. You stop and listen in disbelief as one of your deepest, most defining thoughts roll off the tongue of another being. And they have robbed you of your words and removed bricks that formed the wall between you.
There is a connection made – a bridge – a rope is passed through my waist and tied to yours. It becomes a life-line and we join this three-legged race together. We have our own foot, and we share one; we have our own mind, and share some dreams. We can take the same steps, and though we hobble, we are making it across the finish-line together.
Bridge moments create best friends, it separates certain people from the general flock and place them near our hearts. We allow them past our bolted entry door because the spoke the right password – the magic words. They are let inside.
You feel like who you are is expressed in art; random pictures hanging on white painted walls along a long, narrow corridor. This is the gallery of your identity and few get to see it.
But then this bridge-builder walks in the front door, down the corridor, hands behind their back, slow strides, stopping at each painting. He rubs his chin thoughtfully, and then begins to speak. He analyses and describes the art. Not in a clumsy, “that’s nice” sort of way, but in detail, in informed, insightful detail. He goes on about what the artist intended to express, how the colour-play is interesting, why the depth of the picture complements the subjects, where the light and shadows play a dramatic game.
And you find yourself nodding and saying: “Yes. That’s what I meant. That’s what I see too. That’s the right words.”
You feel like laughing and crying all at the same time. You tear up because of the sheer relief at meeting someone who recognizes certain paintings because they understand. They don’t just sympathize or empathize, but realize and recognize. Why? Because they have some of the same pictures hanging in their own hallway at home. This bridge-builder has stared at the same pictures as you have for years and knows the details like the details of his own mind. The art you have and the art he has tell the same story.
And you love them. You love the bridge people. As much as their words invade your land of isolation and privacy, you nearly feel relieved to see them swarm past your borders and occupy your house. The iron curtain is torn by silk and human connection, and it feels so good that it hurts.
Bridge moments change us forever. They let us know that we are not alone here. They let us know real love.