It's funny to think that while James and I were still looking at houses, this neighborhood was a total enigma. When we couldn't bike from house to house to house, we'd get a ride from our realtor to our various potential new homes, all in seemingly disparate areas. We'd see one house, then another, then another, and the continuity between them was totally lost. When I get in a car, I kind of stop paying attention to where I am--especially if someone else is driving--so all the houses we looked at might as well have been in separate continents.
So it's funny, now, to still see a bunch of the houses we looked at interspersed about our neighborhood. They're so close together, many of them, the distance between them so walkable. I had no idea when we were looking. The in-between space just kind of disappeared into the journey by car and only reappeared months later, during chance walks, bike rides, runs, wanders.
In-between space is like that, I guess: unnoticed. When you're focused on the destination, it's easy to overlook what comes between point A and the end. When you're a living, breathing, solid human being, it's easy to forget that the atoms of which you are comprised are themselves mostly empty space. When you have a variety of tasks to perform, it's easy to overlook the relationship between them all as you check them off your list. But it seems to me that the space in between is what gives meaning and context to everything it connects.