The Life Between Here And There

Liz Ogumbo

2 days ago

7 min read

Updated: 1 hour ago

FROM MY TABLE™

On quiet hope, the present, and the life still unfolding.

"A series of reflections on wine, culture, hospitality, creativity and the art of gathering"

How to Live While the Future Is Still Unfolding

There are seasons when life feels beautiful before anything around you has changed. I have been thinking about what it means to live in the present, even while the future is still unfolding.

Over the past week, I have felt a quiet bliss that is difficult to explain. The circumstances seem the same, the questions do not have all their answers, and the future is still unfolding. Yet something within me feels lighter. There is a renewed sense of hope, a little more room to dream, and a growing willingness to trust what I cannot see yet.

It is a curious thing, this feeling of arriving somewhere emotionally before life has quite caught up.

I have been thinking about how much of our happiness we postpone while waiting for things to fall into place. We tell ourselves we will exhale when the work is done, celebrate when the plans materialise, or finally feel at ease when the next chapter begins.

But what if our life is here to be lived in this moment?

When Your Imagination Gets There First

Sometimes, the mind begins to make room for possibilities long before the world offers any visible evidence.

I have been allowing myself to imagine what life could look like, not as an escape from the present, but as an invitation to meet the future with a more open heart. That liberation about dreaming without demanding that every detail reveal itself immediately.

Psychologists Hazel Markus and Paula Nurius explored a related idea in their influential paper, Possible Selves. They examined how our ideas about who we might become can shape our present motivations and choices and I find that thought rather beautiful.

The person we are becoming does not have to wait until the circumstances are perfect to begin influencing how we live today. Perhaps hope is not always about believing that everything will work out exactly as we planned. Sometimes, it is simply allowing ourselves to imagine that life still has something wonderful to reveal.

A Little Conversation With the Universe

Since I have never been particularly interested in forcing every answer out of life, there

is a difference between being intentional about what we desire and trying to control every step of how it arrives. One asks us to participate; the other can leave us exhausted.

Lately, my conversations with the universe have become simpler. Less negotiation, fewer demands for explanation, and more space for possibility.

Universe, show me how good it can get.

That is the affirmation I have been returning to. Not because I have all the answers, but because I want to remain open to the ones I have not yet imagined.

There is a certain grace in doing what is yours to do, and then allowing the rest to breathe.

The Table for One

Its a beautiful Sunday afternoon, and I find myself setting a table for one.

There is no special occasion, no guest to prepare for, no need to make the moment look like anything other than what it is. Just me, a little time, and the pleasure of sitting with my own thoughts.

Through the recent years, I have come to appreciate these small invitations to be present with myself. A table for one need not be a symbol of absence. It can be an expression of choice: the decision to give yourself the same care you might so readily extend to someone else.

I recently came across research by Yige Yin and colleagues in Nature Mental Health, exploring how experiences of awe can foster more positive attitudes towards solitude. The findings offered an interesting distinction: being alone does not necessarily mean feeling lonely. And how, solitude can also create space for reflection, perspective and a deeper sense of peace.

I was drawn to that distinction because there is something to be said about learning to enjoy your own company without treating it as a waiting room for the rest of your life.

A meal can be an occasion even when nobody else is expected. A beautiful glass, a favourite song, a well-set table — these small rituals remind us that our lives are happening now, not only when there is someone to witness them.

And sometimes, the most generous company we can offer ourselves is our own.

Some Things Grow Better in Quiet

Not everything that matters needs to be announced while it is still taking shape.

Some dreams benefit from privacy. Some decisions need time to settle. Some parts of our lives are best held gently, away from the pressure to explain, prove or promise anything before we are ready.

I am learning to respect that quieter space between intention and arrival.

There is freedom in allowing a thought to mature before sharing it, in working towards something without needing to narrate every step, and in letting possibility remain possibility until the moment feels right.

Quiet does not mean nothing is happening.

Sometimes, it is where the most important things begin.

Living in the Present While We Wait

I recently came across a study by Mark Adams and Netta Weinstein, published in the British Journal of Social Psychology, titled Need Satisfaction in Daily Well-Being: Both Social and Solitude Contexts Contribute to Well-Being.

Their research explored how our everyday experiences of autonomy and competence, including during time spent alone, can contribute to well-being. It reminded me that a satisfying life is not built exclusively around the moments we share with others. How we experience our own time matters, more.

That feels particularly relevant to the seasons when we are waiting for something to change the way waiting can easily become a full-time occupation. We check for signs, revisit the unanswered questions, measure the distance between where we are and where we hope to be. Before we know it, the life we have is reduced to a prelude to the life we want.

I don't ever want to live that way.

I want to make room for anticipation without allowing it to consume the present. To keep working towards what matters while still noticing the afternoon light, enjoying a good conversation, cooking something lovely, listening to music, or simply sitting quietly with a glass of wine.

There is no contradiction in being grateful for today and hopeful for tomorrow.

We can want more without treating what we have as insufficient.

We can prepare for change without making our happiness entirely dependent on it.

Perhaps that is part of the art: learning to live fully in a chapter that has not yet revealed its ending.

When the Inner World Begins to Change

The most interesting thing about this past week is that nothing around me has dramatically shifted. And yet, my experience of it has.

I feel more willing to imagine.

More comfortable with uncertainty.

Less inclined to insist that every unanswered question must be resolved before I can enjoy the day in front of me.

It has made me wonder how often change begins this way — not with a grand announcement or a visible milestone, but with a subtle shift in how we meet our lives.

We may not always be able to choose the timing of an outcome, however, we can pay attention to the way we inhabit the space before it arrives.

We can be kind to ourselves there.

We can remain curious.

We can continue to make beautiful things, nurture meaningful relationships, and create rituals that bring us back to the present.

And we can let ourselves feel good, even when we cannot yet explain why everything is going to be all right.

A Final Pour

This Sunday, my table for one feels like enough.

Not because I have stopped dreaming of what lies ahead, but because I am learning not to make the present pay for the uncertainty of the future.

There is still much I hope for.

There are still things I would love to see take shape. But I am beginning to understand that the space between here and there is not empty space.

It is where we live, where we learn, where we become.

So, I will keep dreaming. I will keep doing the work. I will leave room for life to surprise me, and I will try not to rush past the quiet goodness of an ordinary Sunday afternoon.

What might become possible if you gave yourself permission to enjoy the life you have, while still making room for the life you imagine?

From My Table Notes

📍 Written from: Livingstone, Zambia

🍷 In My Glass: Château Lafite Rothschild 1996 — Pauillac, Bordeaux, France.

🎵 Soundtrack: Superstar — Lauryn Hill.

👗 Dress Code: Blue.

🕯 On the Table: A table for one. A slow Sunday afternoon. A glass of wine, a few thoughts, and room for whatever is becoming.

🌙 Mood: Quiet expectancy.

💭 Reflection: What in your life deserves room to grow without the pressure of being explained too soon?

Inspired By

Yige Yin and colleagues — Nature Mental HealthAwe Fosters Positive Attitudes Toward SolitudeResearch exploring how awe can shape our relationship with solitude and support peace of mind.

Mark Adams and Netta Weinstein — British Journal of Social PsychologyNeed Satisfaction in Daily Well-Being: Both Social and Solitude Contexts Contribute to Well-BeingA study examining how everyday experiences, including time spent alone, contribute to well-being.

Hazel Markus and Paula Nurius — American PsychologistPossible SelvesAn influential exploration of how our imagined future selves can shape the choices we make in the present.