Between the Lines:

Living Through the Transitions

Some mornings, I wake uncertain which century I'm in.

I remember a world where every message took its time. A ringing landline was a question that waited for an answer. Notes were written by hand. The pager buzzed quietly as a signal, not a demand.

Then, slowly, the world hurried.

Cell phones multiplied in pockets. The house phone grew silent.

A thousand voices, always within reach, pressed at the edges of each day.

I used to draw buildings in pencil. Every line was a small risk, and every mistake was part of the learning process, but every line bore my mark.

Graphite dust on my fingers, a rhythm in the wrist, the soft shhh of a line becoming a wall.

Building on vellum with care and detail.

Then the computer arrived, precise, swift, and infinitely correctable, but void of the architects soul.

A promise: you could fix anything, instantly.

But some days, I miss the way my hand knew things my mind did not.

Blueprints once traveled by bicycle, trusted to messengers weaving through city streets.

Then fax, then email, then files sent without ceremony, just data moving through space.

Each change brought speed and connection.

Each change thinned the silence, shortened the waiting, eased the anticipation.

But not every gain is progress.

Some things deepen only in the space between.

Now, again, I find myself at the edge.

AI, new tools, new ways to build, share, and know.

No map for what comes next.

Standing here, I remember:

Transitions are not failures, not losses.

They are thresholds.

A pause before the next breath.

A space where you notice what endures and what is meant to pass.

The practice is to stay awake

To witness what's leaving,

To welcome what arrives,

And to let your hands be at home in both worlds.

Field Note:

"The way is always changing. Be present at the threshold, let each transition teach you how to begin again."