Almost, not yet, already

Border towns, Apsara dancers, tuktuk drivers, and the mystery of the in-between

I gaped at the sight before me. Their fingers bent backward. I tried it myself, discretely. No way. Did they train their hands from an early age to do that, or was it perhaps a genetic trait that had been favored for enough generations that it had become somewhat common in the region?

And their feet. How did they walk on the edges like that, so solidly, with so much obvious muscle control, but so softly at the same time—like they were somehow floating while anchored firmly to the ground?

And how were their knees so consistently bent, supporting their weight through such constant smooth movements?

I’m no dancer, but even I can tell there is a tremendous amount of athleticism involved in the slow movements of Apsara dance, an ancient Cambodian art form we were privileged to witness.

Carvings and etchings of Apsara dancers decorate the walls of the ancient temples like Angkor Wat, reminders of the now Buddhist holy sites’ original Hindu roots. The dancers were intended to represent the in-between, the semi-divine, the meeting point of our earthly existence and the celestial realms. Feet firmly but gracefully on the ground, arms lifted in airy triangle shapes, and those fingers—always miming the life stages of the lotus flowers—delicately strumming the heavens like a harp.

Between two realms. It’s a mystery.

The concept reminded me of the border town we had passed through a couple of days before. Many border towns have a reputation—sometimes earned—for being rough-and-tumble places.

Poi Pet, the small city in Cambodia that sits just across the border from where the train tracks end in Thailand, is one of these. Having stopped there twice now, once for a night and once for part of a day, Andy and I both agree: it has an edginess to it, an extra serving of hustle with a side of desperation.

Butted up against a historically contentious borderline, immigration and customs buildings filled with government officials and soldiers form the only barrier to keep Poi Pet from spilling over into Thailand.

In our limited observations, nothing there feels rooted and permanent. Everything is in flux. Travelers like (and unlike ) us are just passing through. Some residents from one side or the other may be stuck because of visa issues or family crises. An imbalanced number of restless young men—anxious, striving, enterprising—are hovering, looking for any small advantage that can move them forward, like a motor scooter or a tuktuk inching into heavy traffic, holding their ground and scanning for an opening.

In Poi Pet, three different types of money are widely accepted: the Cambodian riel, the neighboring Thai baht, and the American dollar. Commerce there involves extensive mental math, as everyone is making the most of the exchange rates, betting on tomorrow’s strength and weakness of each form of currency, looking for any possible edge, the tiniest bit of advantage on which to capitalize.

Despite the long, slow lines and tedious paperwork involved in crossing the border at Poi Pet, our navy blue American passports, emblazoned on the front with gold eagles, still allow us to cross quite easily between the two lands—two kingdoms, officially—a privilege we will take advantage of as long as it lasts.

Last week we crossed from west to east, from Thailand into Cambodia. This morning we retraced our steps and crossed east to west, getting officially stamped out of Cambodia and walking across the “friendship bridge,” that mysterious strip of no-man’s-land belonging to both and neither kingdom simultaneously, before being stamped back into Thailand again.

It’s technically complex, though physically simple to move across an international border, a combination which mirrors the border towns themselves. As we pass through these often gritty communities, the refrain of an Advent hymn called “Mary Consoles Eve” plays on repeat in my mind:

🎶 Almost, not yet, already. 🎶

(I’ve linked a simple acoustic YouTube video of it at the end of the post.)

Of course, the song is not referring to crossing an international border or merging a tuktuk into the controlled chaos of typical Southeast Asian traffic.

Rather, the song is about Advent, the coming of God to Earth in the human form of Jesus Christ—the very Kingdom of Heaven taking on human flesh and moving into the neighborhood. (I know it sounds a little kooky, but I actually believe this stuff.)

In the teachings of Christianity as I understand them, the final chapter of humanity’s story meeting up with the Kingdom of Heaven has been written, but not yet played out. And yet also, the Kingdom of Heaven is already here.

Both are true.

Almost, not yet, already.

The singular concept of “the border” involves three distinct parts—being stamped out of one place, crossing no-man’s-land, and being stamped in on the other side. Likewise, the way I see it, the Kingdom of Heaven encompasses the Advent of Jesus the Messiah 2,000 years ago, AND the completion of the story on the other side of history where mortal humanity interfaces with immortality, AND that awkward in-between where we live now. The Kingdom came down, and we are fully ensconced in the Kingdom now, and we are also awaiting its fulfillment.

It’s enough to make my head spin, as if Shroedinger’s cat were a theologian—in Poi Pet, driving a tuktuk.

Obviously, I do not espouse Hindu beliefs, but the ancient carvings at Angkor Wat are onto something. As we saw expressed in the beautiful performance of of the Apsara dancers, with their graceful movements and rich colors just a few nights ago, there is a celestial interface. There is a place where Heaven and Earth meet in mystery, a place that doesn't fit neatly on either side of the border. The Kingdom of Heaven is at hand.

Almost, not yet, already.

https://youtu.be/oxAi034nIP4?si=LNo5MI4DzTdU2ma6