They tell you a lot of things before you’re allowed to stand on your bridge.
“Don’t think aloud.”
“If you touch the railing at all, make sure all five fingers are in contact with the metal.”
“A frog is well within its rights to look at you, but giving one a reciprocal glance will net you a whole year of bad luck.”
“The river is as good as it is evil—don’t gaze into its waters if you aren’t ready to know yourself.”
Old wives’ tales and folk stories, if ever I’d heard of them. Still, there are generally grains of truth in strange-sounding advice passed down through generations, in words that humans bother to repeat to one another past the point of their sell-by date. And anyway, when these words come to us from another time, a frog might well have been a noble lord, the river a stranger from a far-off land (the neighbouring village).
I am a good listener, and so I listened to each note of caution when it came to me with the appropriate seriousness, but the path I took to the bridge, and any action I decided to take when standing on it would ultimately be for me to decide. I hadn’t formed any sort of plan, though the idea of making the pilgrimage had been occurring to me often of late—I just woke this morning and thought,
Today is the day.
No fanfare, no epiphany, just a simple statement of fact.
For a pilgrimage, it is customary to dress oneself in symbolic pieces, in religious iconography, in something meant to mark the occasion as significant. I wore sandals, shorts, a shirt, as if I were just popping over to the grocery store to pick up the milk I had forgotten to cross off my shopping list the day before.
Someone more spiritual than me might have said,
“The symbolic piece was your sudden, internal decision to go—that’s why you didn’t give your worldly trappings a second thought.”
Sure. I’d take it.
With enough conviction, you can explain away any sort of laziness.
Clothing was the least of my concerns, though.
It would be too simple if the bridge were a single, specific bridge. The river, at least, is singular. But there are many bridges that cross it, each a variation on a theme, a man-made construct with a different personality. To find the right one to stand on requires stamina and patience, a steady prowl along the riverbank.
They say that there is another world on the opposite side of the riverbank, though from here it truly looks like nothing much out of the ordinary. There are never any cars or trucks trundling past, but sometimes you can catch the movement of people out of the corner of your eye, the shapes of their retreating backs if you turn your head fast enough to look. It looks lived-in, bench-seats and curtains all properly careworn.
No one from that side ever crosses over to ours, though.
And that is likely because, to fully cross your bridge is to never return—whether that is for good or ill changes depending on who you ask. There are a great many people in my life who have stood on their bridge, only to retrace their steps. Others, who marched forward without hesitation, without so much as a farewell. What they all share in common is the inability to explain to anyone else just what might be on the other side.
The footpath along the river is well-maintained but shows its age in the way stone and brick tiles ripple over tree roots, hugging them with the help of newly-packed earth or asphalt. It shows its age in an overgrowth of ivy too, and in the boughs of trees that could touch the surface of the river below with a strong enough gust of wind.
The butterflies along the path are somehow even more delicate than the ones that frequent my front yard—with intricate patterns on their large wings, and curled antennae, they seem like tissue paper being gently yanked around by the wind.
Or like leaves falling off a branch when the air is completely still.
In the middle of summer, like it is now, the hum of insects could easily put you into a trance…
You could walk past your bridge over and over again, your entire life, and not recognize it for what it was. Intent and self-awareness is of the utmost importance. Thinking of what you are good at, of your accomplishments and points of pride will eventually force a reveal, create a magnetic pull between you and your bridge. A clearheaded inventory of your faults, those things you understand as points of improvement, however, will create a link between you and your bridge much faster. Few manage to encounter their bridge through negative inventory—not for lack of trying.
We are rarely able to define our own shortcomings.
I am well-practiced at it, however, replaying moments of shame and strange self-acceptance in my head as my feet carry me back and forth along the bank.
At the third pass, I notice it.
My bridge.
It is an unassuming one, a simple structure made of steel beams a little browned with age, one that the ivy on our side of the river, at least, likes enough to cling to and twine around. Now that I notice it, really take a good, hard look, I can’t imagine setting foot on any other bridge along the river. This one is breathtaking.
It is only upon approaching it that I notice the dark, weather-worn wooden slats which make up the walkway stretching from one side of the river to the other. A sudden impulse leads me to slip my feet out of my sandals, leave them in a thin patch of grass nearby.
The wooden slats have spent the entire afternoon growing warm in the sun.
The bits of advice I’ve heard my whole life churn in the back of my mind until only one is distinct. I take a deep, calming breath, and at the very centre of the bridge, look over its side into the river below.
A simple reflection, nothing more.
It is almost a delight to see clouds wavering above me in the clear, lazy flow of water.
The laugh-lines crinkling on my own face.
Today I’m crossing it.
Today I’m—
.
August 16, 2019. 五反田目黒川沿い.