MIND THE GAP

 

I took a photo on the westbound platform at Limehouse station (Docklands Light Railway) of the words MIND THE GAP

Of the ten letters, five—D, T, H, A, P—were partially worn away. Two—T, H—were significantly erased; one—T—almost entirely obliterated. (Almost, and yet still making its presence known. Mind the gap.)

And yet the words were still readable, still made sense. Though only because of a shared alphabet, and understanding of the context, the other letters around each letter, and what they communicate together.

Indeed, the very fact that these letters were not pristine adds interest, makes them noteworthy, not simply as a warning but as something storied. Since these letters were laid down, how many feet, how many buggy wheels, suitcases, wheelchairs, have passed over them, on and off trains, on their way to or from work or home or meeting a friend?

These letters, fully fifty percent impaired, spoke to me of people. Able-bodied and disabled. Neurotypical and neurodivergent. Privileged or marginalised—sometimes erased—for a host of different reasons: gender, ethnicity, socio-economic background...

We are all human. And the truth is that all of us—whether we fall into a category of cultural ‘perfection’ or ‘imperfection’—only have meaning in relation to the rest. (One of the foundational divine statements is that it isn’t good for humans to consider themselves complete on their own.)

All of us fall short of some narrow ideal, that does not embrace genetic mutation or wear-and-tear. (Or, fall short when we insist on such a narrow definition of who is, and who is not, fully human.)

All of us are storied, increasingly so over time, and that is part of what makes us interesting.

And so we need to be reminded to MIND THE GAP. To attend to the spaces—the bodies—that interrupt our expectations, and present us with a richer reality. To be broken open, ourselves, into a beautiful vulnerability.