Crossing the Bridge.

Walking in the countryside in Cambodia with one of my dogs, we came across an old stone construction -a bridge dating back to the Khmer Empire, camuflaged by small trees growing through the cracks, neighbouring branches and weeds. Unable to cross it, we walked back home. 

Excited, I gathered some tools and returned. It took two hours to clear the deck. I deliberately waited until the last vine had been removed before stepping into it, to honour the occasion.  

The bridge is near a small village in Oddar Meanchey Province. Everyone knew of its existence, yet superstition kept it mostly abandoned. Legend spoke of bad luck. some people whispered of venomous snakes. One landowner known to have lost his leg to a landmine, was said to have been bitten. Fear lingered in the unspoken spaces. 

By the weekend we invited the students from the school I founded a few months earlier. The excursion was optional and not everyone could come. Those who did were thrilled to discover a part of their history and tradition long forgotten. The bridge continues standing, and children will grow up and visit in their own time.

On the other side of the small bridge lies a perfect round space, a cool oasis, sheltered by tall trees, beside the river. Marie, my dog, and I visited every evening, becoming a sacred moment of rest and reflection. Marie, led the way. 

Today the villagers don't need any prompts to visit the bridge, and even some families choose it to gather. The entire process carried a lesson that didn't need words or explanations. 

Crossing the bridge is how we meet the true nature of the self; the chamber where our natural gifts lie, unreachable and reminiscent of who we could really be. Guarded by fear, the bridge is easy to recognise. Paralysing as fear is, the only way forward is through. 

In fear, snakes become giant snakes; echoes of doom. Being fear the darkest colour there is, -even darker than black-, the light of the self dims; true nature remains unexplored, and unexpressed in a field of impossibility.  

But fear vanishes once we move through it. 

Cross the bridge. You might not be able to cross it the first time, but with some work, back and forth, the weeds and branches can be removed. A scratch here, a cut there. A heartache -perhaps- to remember how you got there, an experience gone by, not to be lived for the rest. 

Cross the bridge. Meet yourself on the other side. Your inner truth is calling. 

I crossed the bridge and others followed. 

You'll never know who or what will meet you there, whilst standing on this side.