There is a moment which is discernible from all others. It is that moment between the rise and fall of confetti, that moment at which the confetti itself pauses, hovering at the point at which it can no longer ascend.
It is a moment of suspense and elation.
I hold my breath and in the language of 'if only' think that in this pause the laws of gravity might be defied or that a swift wind will whisk this swirling mass of coloured paper somewhere else.
Is this how in waiting there can be grace?
Cioran writes that "grace is the joy of soaring upwards."1 The moments between other moments represent the pause when we may come to understand that "right next to grace there is permanent fear ... One must fall in order to reach the heights."2
It is not that grace is born of fear or of despair, but rather that in the space of the pause they are neither seperate nor distant from each other and that to experience one might be to know something of the other.