Welcome to The Liminal Space
On silence, moments of great pause, and the opportunities that lie within.
These are hearty winter trees, green blue and full of life. They are weighted with crunchy snow but they are lifted by cold -8 air. // Minneapolis 2021.
Part way through an article about the stillness of the Olympic National Forest, there is a photograph of a tree, the trunk rooting first into the air, and then to the cliff sides on either side of it. It is not unlike a cartoon character bridging the gap between cliffs with their bendy body, suspended briefly before comically falling. The tree is seemingly suspended, but in actuality, it’s rooting in an unexpected way. It doesn’t appear as unsettling as you might think. Rather, it’s quite beautiful in its creativity and remarkable in its natural innovation. At least, to the onlooker.
It’s quite fitting that I came across said article while checking out the back-of-book resource list from Wild Words a book by Nicole Gulotta, mostly about writing. While I made many notes from her book, one that has stood out in my own journaling and conversations since then was the concept of accepting and acknowledging liminal space—the time and space of in between. Of course she is referring to the time between creative projects, and perhaps, the time more commonly known as writer’s block, or bluntly, a complete lack of inspiration.
In the book, she encourages us all to recognize liminal space as a gift. Gulotta tells us it can help us realize what needs letting go or setting aside. She says this acknowledgement won’t bring the season of liminality to an end, but that it will help us face it confidently. She plants a vivid example in our mind: the ever-confident Julia Child, “knife in hand, bird on the counter” who said “We must confront the duck!”
To face liminal space - that is, face times of uncertainty and aimlessness and restlessness - is uncomfortable. It feels as if we're not supposed to be there. Even the word itself “liminal” feels as though it is incomplete and belongs inside of another word. It rolls around on your tongue like you have a mouth full of marbles. It’s not outright unwelcoming, but feels this way simply because no one else is there to welcome you inside of the liminal space. But confronting it, acknowledging it and using it for something better—in all of its ambiguous glory—is a resource in and of itself.
So here I am, in case you’re here in a liminal space too, perhaps with me, perhaps right next door—Welcome. It’s okay that you’re here. You won’t be for long. But as long as you are, let’s find something to do.
There is another piece in the same book that reminds us that “When things are tough, be kind and be present.” So let us be kind to ourselves and be present with ourselves. What happens when we give ourselves permission to pause?
A few weeks ago, it was desperately cold in Minnesota. The kind of cold when you put on three or four layers just to run out to your car to start it so that it remembers how to run—only to find that it has gone into some kind of voluntary hibernation. I did not make plans that weekend. I accepted that I would not see friends, I would not suggest a bonfire in someone’s yard, I would not even take a walk.
Instead, I decided to read. I had a book I wanted to dig into—the kind of novel you choose to get lost in. I made a commitment to start and finish the entire book that weekend and held myself accountable by calling a friend and asking to talk about it after the fact. Rather than focusing on all of the things I wasn’t able to do, I picked one that I felt capable of in my less-than-ideal environment, waiting for warmer weather. And I relished in it. While that weekend felt full of imperfect conditions, it was actually the perfect condition for reading alone and getting lost in a different place of my mind.
When we give ourselves permission to pause (rather than fight the pause forces upon us), we live a little bit slower. In an entire moment, we wonder, we decide, we act, we follow through, and we even celebrate. In liminal space, when we think to be kind and present, we move from “I want” to “I have.”
If I look at liminal space and begin my thoughts with “Overall…” I find that I am (overall) living the life that I want. The pause reminds me that things are fine and that “more” and “better” will eventually come. Without the great pause, I move from one checked box to another, forgetting entirely that I am allowed to celebrate the present moment and celebrate the follow through. The great pause is for resting and reflecting, and I think, honoring.
Now, back to the tree, suspended between cliffs. The article is about silences and what we learn from them. This letter, too, is about silences and what we hear when we allow ourselves to listen.
O’Rourke’s piece mentions another, saying “Silence is for bumping into yourself.” Silence, as well as liminal time, is a matter of stark and sometimes lonely reflection. “In quiet,” O’Rourke writes, “it turns out, we perceive more, our senses spring to life.” We see ourselves and the world around us in a clearer light, sometimes a light that at first glance feels too bright, too detailed.
“We confuse silence for peace—then go a little crazy when we have it.” O’Rourke writes. Though not immediately apparent, we come out on the other side too. We search for a pause, a break, and then we worry about taking that time to actually breathe and relax. But once we do, we come out renewed and different. We celebrate. We are fresh and ready. Our roots take hold on the next cliff side.
Smile. Give Thanks. Wave. Make Peace.
Lauren
"If I look at liminal space and begin my thoughts with “Overall…” I find that I am (overall) living the life that I want. The pause reminds me that things are fine and that “more” and “better” will eventually come." love this quote. I recently took time to journal while I was stressed and felt exactly what you're describing here. At the end of taking time to write everything down I realized - I'm so freaking thankful for my life.
My doggy has taught me a lot about liminal time and space, she usually uses it to take naps. She is an artist of great paws and great pause. Thanks for the story.