The Space Between Things
Earlier this month, on an otherwise unremarkable day, I sat down to practise yoga and realised... I did not really want to begin.
When I think back, with a clear head and some distance, I realise I'd had a week of struggling with beginnings.
Once I get going, things usually move quite easily. But whether it is sitting down to work, cooking dinner, reading a book or stepping onto my yoga mat, I have often found myself struggling to create enough momentum to start.
It is not that I do not want to do these things - I know they are good for me, and that each serves its purpose, and doing them will usually help me feel better. That knowledge has not, however, made beginning them any easier.
Leaning Into the Struggle
That week, part of the reason for this struggle may have been that I was away from my normal routine and surroundings - even a pleasant change can interrupt the familiar signals that tell us what happens next.
But, if I am being brutally honest with myself, that explanation only goes so far. I struggle with this at home too. Blaming the change in routine entirely would be an excuse.
At first, I assumed the problem was simply the distance between the beginning and the end.
I love closing loops. My last article, about what a cup of tea taught me about completion, probably demonstrates that quite well. When you begin something, you are as far away from completing it as you will ever be. Starting creates another open loop, another commitment, and another thing waiting to be finished.
I thought that was why beginnings felt so intimidating.
On this day, however, instead of immediately trying to correct the feeling, I decided to watch it for a while.
I let myself do some of the things I had been using to avoid beginning: playing games on my phone, scrolling through social media, and generally occupying myself without committing to anything in particular. The difference was that I tried to notice what was happening underneath the distraction.
Gradually I realised something - the problem did not seem to be the activity itself. The problem was the transition.
What Happened Between Things
Photo by Kamil Klyta on Unsplash
When I say transition, what I mean is the space between finishing one thing and deciding what came next.
In that momentary pause, every possibility seemed to arrive at once. There were too many things I could do, and even more things I thought I should do. Everything presented itself with apparently equal importance, and choosing between those options became overwhelming.
The transitions were, and had been for some time, paralysing me.
So, when I eventually sat down for yoga, I decided to explore that. Rather than ignoring the resistance, I investigated it. What I realised was:
- Beginning felt like committing to an entire practice - and that was overwhelming on that given day;
- Transitions, however, were everywhere, but smaller and more manageable than a whole beginning.
Settling:
There was the transition between settling and starting moving. My body was on the mat, but my mind was still racing through its expectations for the practice: what I might do, how long I might practise and whether it would be worthwhile.
Leaning into that, I was able to recognise what I needed to do to move past the overwhelm - the transition I needed was gentler than the one I had imagined (gentle breathing rather than throwing myself straight into movement).
To make that transition easier, I started with Sama Vritti, an equal breathing practice. I realised grounding and deeper breathing at the beginning of practice were not merely preparation for yoga - they were a transition in themselves: a way of moving from everything that had come before into the practice that was beginning now.
During Sama Vritti, I paid attention not only to the four distinct stages of the breath, but also to the tiny moment between them. That is to say, I really focused my attention on the almost imperceptible point at which inhaling became holding, or holding became exhaling.
Those moments were brief, but they were not empty. They were where one thing became another - where one stage of breathing became another.
Finding the Transitions on the Mat:
I carried that attention into my warm-up. Rather than rushing to remember the next movement, I paused and allowed it to emerge. As I moved through the rest of the practice, I became more deliberate about every transition.
Normally, I might think mainly about the pose I was trying to reach. That day, I paid attention to how I got there. Each transition became deliberate rather than automatic.
The destination still mattered. I knew which pose was coming next. But the movement towards it was no longer an inconvenient gap between two more important shapes. It was part of the practice.
And then, there was Savasana.
Almost immediately, I wanted to get up. I was so struck by what had happened during the practice that I wanted to think about it properly, write it down and turn it into something. Lying still felt like postponing the useful part. But Savasana was another transition.
It was the movement from doing the practice to absorbing it; from deliberate effort to stillness; from being on the mat to returning to the rest of my day.
Getting up immediately would have meant treating that transition as disposable. So, instead, I stayed.
To say I am glad I leaned into that Savasana is an understatement. During that brief period, I realised I had been treating transitions as empty space instead of meaningful space.
The Spaces We Keep Trying to Skip
Photo by Stefan Lehner on Unsplash
We rush through transitions because there is such intense focus on the end goal or what comes next
I want Monday to become Friday, so that I can enjoy the weekend.
I want to get healthier, but the distance between deciding to change and reaching some imagined future version of myself feels enormous. I forget that the process is made up of millions of smaller transitions: choosing one meal, beginning one walk, stopping when I am full, resting, and then beginning again.
We miss the transitions in smaller ways too.
We check our phones while the kettle boils. We listen to something while we walk. We answer emails while eating lunch. We mentally begin tomorrow before today has properly finished.
We constantly try to fill, shorten or erase the spaces between things.
Perhaps we see transitions as evidence that we have not arrived yet. They belong to the unfinished version of our lives: the beginner stage, the draft, the journey, the waiting and the becoming.
But almost all of life happens before we arrive.
Yoga did not teach me how to move into Warrior II that day. I have practised for long enough to understand the basic shape, although I am also humble enough to know there will always be more to learn.
What yoga taught me was how to notice the moment before I got there.
It taught me to pay attention to the shift of weight, the placement of a foot, the turn of the body and the breath that carried me into the pose.
I am beginning to wonder whether that tiny space—the one I have spent years trying to skip—was never empty at all.
Perhaps the transition is not something to get through before the real practice begins.
Perhaps it is the practice.
A Few More Small Reflections
Things That Have Been Slowly Sinking In