The Bridge (or A Letter to my Therapist)

There once was a village tucked away in the mountainous region of Nepal. On three sides of the village were mountains protecting the village, and on the fourth a broad fast-flowing river across which there was a bridge. It was the only way in and out of the village and the villagers relied on the bridge. It had been built years ago by their ancestors who had long since died, but the current villagers did all they could to maintain it. When a plank would get loose, they would re-attach it. When the paint began to peal, they would add a new coat. It was as if the bridge was a part of the village, which only made it more unsettling when they learned it needed to be replaced.

“The bridge has served us well,” one person said. “But the time has come to replace it with a new bridge.”

“Can’t we just keep repairing it like we have,” someone asked. “It’s all we’ve ever known. It served our ancestors well. Can’t we keep maintaining it?”

“No,” came the adamant response. “The bridge’s foundation is rotted, and even our well-intentioned maintenance is only slightly effective.”

So the villagers agreed to tear down the bridge and replace it, but as the work began many had second thoughts. When the bridge was half-way taken apart, they approached the village leader again.

 “Why’d we decide to do this anyway?” asked one person.

“Maybe we should stop and put it back the way it was,” said another. “At least we could walk across it then.” 

“The problem is you are only seeing the bridge that is being taken apart,” shared the wise leader. “You need to look and see the bridge that’s coming.”

“But how can we see that?” someone asked. “It doesn’t exist.”

“But it does!” replied the leader. “We just haven’t built it yet.”