Liminal Spaces Quotes

Sometimes the people you loved left you halfway through a story. Sometimes they left you without a goodbye. And, sometimes, they stayed around in little ways. In the memory of a musical. In the smell of their perfume. In the sound of the rain, and the itch for adventure, and the yearning for that liminal space between one airport terminal and the next. I hated her for leaving, and I loved her for staying as long as she could. And I would never wish this pain on anyone.

A lie was not a lie if it was never uttered; questions that were never asked did not need answers. They would both remain perfectly content to linger in the liminal, endless space between truth and denial.

No one would lift a weapon. No one would fight or flee. Just this night, just this moment, they had entered a liminal space where their past and future did not matter, where they could be the children they used to be.

Cats liked to occupy liminal spaces: both inside and outside, both tame and wild, both yawn and meow.

I’ve been told my liminal space is like the dark of the grave. But I think of it as the dark from the other end of life entirely. The dark of everything ahead, not everything behind.

He was summer and she was fall. He was adventure and she was comfort. But right now, on the cusp between the two seasons, in this liminal space they’d carved out for themselves, they fit just right.

Waffle House at four in the morning is a liminal space occupied by long-haul truckers, bleary-eyed shift workers, and teenagers so high they can smell God’s breath.

Happiness is merely the liminal space between ignorance and understanding.

When you first open a book, you enter a liminal space. You are neither in this world, the world wherein you hold a book (say, this book), nor in that world (the metaphysical space the words point toward). To some extent this polydimensionality describes the feeling of reading in general-one is in many many places places at at once once.

It’s not an easy time, love, but it’s the time we have. I’m here for it, here with you, ‘tho cannot hold your hand. There is no railing, no concrete ground. So wander Into the uncharted, allowing all the feelings But not letting them hold you back. Step out With them, dance with them, In the liminal space between our Before-world and our Future-world … the ellipses … the dot dot dot … The myriad notes between any two pitches … The distance between all that is finite … The infinite

Liminal space is a concept in theology and psychology. It is the intermediate, in-between, transitional state where you cannot go back to where you were because a threshold has been crossed, and you have yet to arrive where you are going because it is not yet available to you.

A name could be either a ghost or a portent depending on which side of time you were standing. The name Whaletown had become a mere specter of the past, a crepuscular Pacific shimmer, but the name Desolation Sound still hovered in the liminal space and felt to her both oracular and haunted.

We don’t receive the things we want because we deserve them. Most of the time we get them because we are blind and lucky. It’s in the act of having, the daily tending, that we have an opportunity to become deserving. It’s not a place to be reached. It is a constant betwixt and between. It’s in that hollow, liminal space that I think—hope?—humility can be achieved.

Grief is a country that has no definite borderlines and that recognises no single trajectory. It is a space that did not exist before your loss, and that will never disappear from your map, no matter how hard you rub at the charcoal lines. You are changed utterly, and your personal geography becomes yours and yours only.

Monsters existed in the liminal space of half-belief and practical superstition. Even folks who claimed not to believe in God knew not to tempt devils.

There are many people, in-between people, who walk in liminal spaces with an acknowledgment that all of life is a complex struggle, but one we should not handle alone.

Bohr's standpoint, that a space-time description is impossible, I reject a limine. Physics does not consist only of atomic research, science does not consist only of physics, and life does not consist only of science. The aim of atomic research is to fit our empirical knowledge concerning it into our other thinking. All of this other thinking, so far as it concerns the outer world, is active in space and time. If it cannot be fitted into space and time, then it fails in its whole aim and one does not know what purpose it really serves.

Bridges are thresholds to other realities, archetypal, primal symbols of shifting consciousness. They are passageways, conduits, and connectors that connote transitioning, crossing borders, and changing perspectives. Bridges span liminal spaces between worlds, spaces I call nepantla, a Nahuatl word meaning tierra entre medio.

Near the end of Love's Labor, Eva Feder Kittay (1999, 154) writes that a fundamental aspect of a just society is related to the conditions and limits of mothering. In a just society, women with disabilities can mother because there is adequate emotional and material support for them to do so, and given a context of support and approval to reproduce, they can also choose not to bear children. In a just society, mothers of children with disability can mother, and they, their children, and other needed caregivers will be adequately supported." (15)

(Why is it you feel more kinship to dead girls than living ones? And what do you think that says about you?)

We use rituals in our Moon Circle in order to set the evening apart as a sacred space. We use it to recentre ourselves, to allow crashing thoughts to melt away. Like music and art, rituals can open our hearts to new possibilities. They allow us to see with a fresh clarity, and bring us to a space of liminality. Liminal space is what we feel when we see a stunning sunset and the world around us drops away. It's when we hear a new song and begin crying at the traffic lights. It's the quiet of Christmas Eve, when everything is done and all the family is asleep, and your mind grows still and full of gladness.

Sometimes the people you loved left you halfway through a story. Sometimes they left you without a goodbye. And, sometimes, they stayed around in little ways. In the memory of a musical. In the smell of their perfume. In the sound of the rain, and the itch for adventure, and the yearning for that liminal space between one airport terminal and the next. I hated her for leaving, and I loved her for staying as long as she could.

When we enter the world of birth, we step across the threshold from the mundane to the sacred. Pregnancy and birth are a space between worlds — a liminal space — a place where you are no longer not a parent and not yet one either. This betwixt and between is sacred space within which powerful and profound events occur — often uninvited.

We’re all lonely travelers,” he used to say, “wandering empty roads under a weight of cosmic indifference.

I'm not good at normal-people small talk. I always want to get weird. Start a conversation about wildly unfounded conspiracy theories. Liminal spaces. Dermoids.

Home became the liminal space in between-between identities, between cultures, between languages- and I was content claiming that space as my own, pleased to be different.

one of those liminal spaces that have proliferated on this earth.

So we’re talking about ghosts, and liminal spaces, and hell,” Ianthe said. Ianthe always wanted everything brought back to liminal spaces and hell, as though her rooms were not enough.

It's quite possible that living in the liminal space between symptoms and answers has offered me too much loneliness, yes, but also space to breathe, distance from the settled grief of knowing.

Halloween is no longer a time for remembrance, but it still reveals or need to enter liminal spaces: those moments when we're standing on the boundary between fear and delight, and those times when we wish that the veil between the living and the dead would lift for a while. But most of all, it hints at the winter to come, opening the door to the dark season, and reminding us of the darknesses that lurk in all our futures.

In some traditions, Te Pō is associated with Te Kore, a word that in common speech expresses simple negation but here is elevated to mean something like “Nothingness” or “the Void.” Like Te Pō, Te Kore can be qualified—Kore-nui (the Vast Void); Kore-roa (the Far-Extending Void); Kore-para (the Parched Void); Kore-rawea (the Void in Which Nothing Is Felt)—suggesting that it is less a matter of true absence or emptiness and more a kind of liminal space between being and nonbeing—a “realm of potential being,

In liminal space, one meets the unknown, the marginalized, the synchronistic, the other, the unconscious edge of one's former narratives. At this point, the possibility to try out new narratives, to reframe one's story, becomes critical. Through narratives of participation the center of gravity shifts from fear and defensiveness to curiosity, creativity, and celebration. One begins to take a stand to validate one own's affects and doubts while at the same time interrogating them. The effect of such a shift is that the area of questioning about the self, the world, and the use of narrative language begins to widen noticeably. We can no longer assume there will be an outcome of homogeneous accounts through dialogue. The frames of narratives of participation anticipate heterogeneity rather than accord.

Maybe what stopped people from voting wasn't a lack of information about the candidates or a feeling that the outcomes of races didn't matter or a sense that a trip to the polls was inconvenient. What if voting wasn't only a political act, but a social one that took place in a liminal space between the public and private that had never been well-defined to citizens? What if toying with those expectations was key to turning a person into a voter? What if elections were simply less about shaping people's opinions than changing their behaviors?

I’m not quite too tired to drive, but I’m tired enough I don’t feel entirely comfortable doing it. It’s the state of over-attention, where everything feels a little too real but also not-real. Liminal space, as Shira likes to call it. Points of transition where the sense of time and reality skews, making us more open to new experiences.

There is a liminal space created between the powerful person and the person who is the target of unwanted attention, a liminal space between outright yes and outright no. That space is not a compromise—not a maybe-yes or maybe-no—but more of a hovering, a being caught and not knowing where else to go or how to move without making things much worse. So you stay put. You hold the person off as best you can without causing them to retaliate too terribly, and because you know they can retaliate if they want to, that they have the power to do this, that they could decide to ruin you for displeasing them or rejecting them too forcefully. On the outside you continue to exist as though nothing is wrong, you perpetuate everything as though it is normal. You maintain the status quo with the abuser and with everyone around the abuser. Yet inside you are at war, you are shrinking, you are wishing you could die rather than continue much longer as though everything were fine. You become exhausted with the responsibility of making a situation okay that is not at all okay.

Some people were just that dense. You could cry and scream and starve yourself, and they still wouldn’t see your suffering until you opened a vein on their church shoes.

I have no idea what to believe I’ll find in here anymore. You could park a Costco in one of these rooms and I’d just nod along once I found it, like, Uh-huh. Okay, sure. Of course.

Isn’t that what sickness is? A violence, in need of direction, channeled inward?

A lie was not a lie if it was never uttered; questions that were never asked did not need answers. They would both remain perfectly content to linger in the liminal, endless space between truth and denial

One of the obvious implications is that a person will have to face the fact that she cannot meet other people’s expectations. This signals the end of what might be called the “camel” phase of human development. I believe it was Nietschze who suggested that for the first part of life, we are camels, trudging through the desert, accepting on our backs everybody’s “shoulds” and “don’ts.” Camels only know how to spit; they don’t think for themselves or talk back. As the camel dies, a lion is born in its place. Lions discover both their roar and the art of preening. The lion may be a little shaky at first, so support and encouragement are vital. But once the camel begins to die (e.g., signaled by depression), there is no turning back. Symptoms occupy the space between the death of the camel and the birth of the lion. A therapist can be a good midwife during this liminal phase.

… the countryside and the village are symbols of stability and security, of order. Yet they are also, as I have noted, liminal spaces, at a very narrow remove from the atavistic Wild. Arcadia is not the realm even of Giorgione and of Claude, with its cracked pillars and thunderbolts, its lurking banditti; still less is it Poussin’s sun-dappled and regularised realm of order, where, although the lamb may be destined for the altar and the spit, all things proceed with charm and gravity and studied gesture; least of all is it the degenerate and prettified Arcady of Fragonard and Watteau, filled with simpering courtier-Corydons, pallid Olympians, and fat-arsed putti. (It is only family piety that prevents me from taking a poker to an inherited coffee service in gilt porcelain with bastardised, deutero-Fragonard scenes painted on the sides of every damned thing. Cue Wallace Greenslade: ‘… “Round the Horne”, with Marie Antoinette as the dairymaid and Kenneth Williams as the manager of the camp-site….’) No: Arcadia is the very margin of the liminal space between the safe tilth and the threatening Wild, in which Pan lurks, shaggy and goatish, and Death proclaims, from ambush, et in Arcadia ego. Arcadia is not the Wide World nor the Riverbank, but the Wild Wood. And in that wood are worse than stoats and weasels, and the true Pan is no Francis of Assisi figure, sheltering infant otters. The Wild that borders and penetrates Arcady is red in tooth and claw.

I find it comforting,” Bell said. “It reminds me of the womb. They say we don’t remember what it is like to be there, but I don’t believe that. I think deep inside we always know. It’s why children burrow under blankets and cats push their heads into your elbow when they sit beside you. I’ve not had those experiences myself, but I know why they happen. I’ve been told my liminal space is like the dark of the grave. But I think of it as the dark from the other end of life entirely. The dark of everything ahead, not everything behind.

In every place, no matter where you look, there are nooks that one seems to see, odd little spaces and hidden corners that hide from the world in plain sight. In every single square inch of the world, no matter how populated, there are what could be called liminal places, tiny little spaces, sometimes vast stretches, where the average laws of space and time are not wholly adhered to, you might say.

But creativity, she doesn’t fit in a box. She’s a wild, fluid, uncontrollable energy that spreads out sensuously from a curious, wide open mind in large expanses of aimless time on dreamy liminal train journeys or in subtle moments between waking and sleep. She can’t be pushed, or coughed up, or beaten into submission by a brutal and unmerciful regime. She needs light, and breath, and space and then, maybe, if the mood takes her, she’ll unfurl her wings and let her colors run into the atmosphere. And this energy, this wild, fun, unpredictable magic that I’d played with so happily as a child, that had flowed through me like it was my very life force up until this point; I didn’t understand it anymore. Creativity was this swirling wild mysterious language, but now I lived in a colorless angular world that promised me a certainty I valued above all else. And where before, I was just scribbling, writing, moving for the mere joy of it, now I tried to commodify my creativity. I tried to squeeze it out and make it do something worthwhile, be special, be important, be good. I could no longer see the point of art if it wasn’t good. But that’s the tricky thing about art, it’s never strictly good or bad, it’s just expression, or excretion. It couldn’t be measure by scales or charts, or contained in small manageable segments in the day. It was always, by its very nature, so imperfect. And the imperfections drove me mad. The anxiety and frustration with my creative endeavors turned into an actual fear of blank pages and pallets of paint. There was too much potential and too much room to fail so day by day, I chose perfection over creativity. I chose no more creativity, and no more mistakes. There are things that eating disorders takes from you that are more important, much greater and more profound a loss, and much much more difficult to recover and restore completely than body fat. And that reckless urge to create, just for the pure, senseless joy of it, would become the one I missed the most.

Samantha Earle is a philosopher at the University of East Anglia who specializes in liminal spaces. She firmly believes that Western civilization is currently ripe for radical change. Talking with her was the most transformative conversation I had while putting together this book. Philosophers like to speak of an “imaginary,” or a guiding framework, for organizing society. Earle isn’t under any illusions that this process is going to be easy. But just as climate scientists are certain that our current path will lead to inevitable destruction of our planet’s fundamental life-support systems, Earle is certain that our prevailing guiding frameworks for civilization cannot last. “We’re at that time where the problems of the world just can’t be answered by the prevailing imaginary,” she told me. “We are in a time of breakdown.

The ability to perceive and feel, along with the intricacies of family relations unites us as a species. Poets collect succulent physical sense impressions and heartfelt feelings with equal enthusiasm. Poets have the alacrity to see and feel what most of us fail to perceive or otherwise ignore, take for granted, or attempt to forget. Similar to the art of Ukiyo-e (a genre of Japanese woodblock prints and paintings depicting traditional Japanese scenes), poets make the nothingness of our lives come alive. Poets design their sun-filled salvations out of the minutia of nature and the seemingly ordinary happenings of life. Although essayist can also explore the liminal spaces of daily life by probing the avenues of common experiences, essayists are more interested in testing ideas and principles than in invoking memories, sharing feelings, or eliciting emotions.

Lefebvre’s concept of heterotopia (radically different from that of Foucault) delineates liminal social spaces of possibility where “something different” is not only possible, but foundational for the defining of revolutionary trajectories. This “something different” does not necessarily arise out of a conscious plan, but more simply out of what people do, feel, sense, and come to articulate as they seek meaning in their daily lives. Such practices create heterotopic spaces all over the place. We do not have to wait upon the grand revolution to constitute such spaces. Lefebvre’s theory of a revolutionary movement is the other way round: the spontaneous coming together in a moment of “irruption,” when disparate heterotopic groups suddenly see, if only for a fleeting moment, the possibilities of collective action to create something radically different. That coming together is symbolized by Lefebvre in the quest for centrality. The traditional centrality of the city has been destroyed. But there is an impulse towards and longing for its restoration which arises again and again to produce far-reaching political effects, as we have recently seen in the central squares of Cairo, Madrid, Athens, Barcelona, and even Madison, Wisconsin and now Zuccotti Park in New York City. How else and where else can we come together to articulate our collective cries and demands?

I missed her every day. I missed her in ways I didn't yet understand—in ways I wouldn't find out for years to come. I missed her with this deep sort of regret, even though there was nothing I could have done. She never wanted anyone to see the monster on her shoulder, so she hid it, and when she finally took the monster's hand, it broke our hearts. It would keep breaking our hearts, everyone who knew her, over and over and over again. It was the kind of pain that didn't exist to someday be healed by pretty words and good memories. It was the kind of pain that existed because, once upon a time, so did she. And I carried that pain, and that love, and that terrible, terrible day, with me. I got comfortable with it. I walked with it. Sometimes the people you loved left you halfway through a story. Sometimes they left you without a goodbye. And, sometimes, they stayed around in little ways. In the memory of a musical. In the smell of their perfume. In the sound of the rain, and the itch for adventure, and the yearning for that liminal space between one airport terminal and the next. I hated her for leaving, and I loved her for staying as long as she could. And I would never wish this pain on anyone.

Absent all speculation, the contemplation on everything known and unknown, there’s always an invitation to listen. We could even cease the meaning-making and surrender to the mystery. Be willing to feel the grief, not just for our own losses but for the big losses throughout time. We could exhale heartbreak for the death of mothers and children, grandparents and lovers, tribes and democracies. The crack of falling redwoods and splitting glaciers, the disappearance of the monarchs and the mourning of the giant tortoise. The landslides, the floods, the fires. We could feel the destruction of mountains, comets, galaxies. All the losses without redemption. All that has been broken. And in that silence between breaths we could pause. We could acknowledge… absence. In the liminal space we could feel the emptiness. Behold the big, spacious silence behind all noise. And there, right there, at the edges or perhaps smack in the middle of our awareness we might feel a fullness. The nearness of something sacred, the quiet presence which can’t be captured in words—only felt. That which is deeply personal and undeniably universal, that which is me and yet everything not-me, that nearness some people call Source, God, the Great Mother, the Great Perfection, that which can’t be named. And as we inhale, we can breathe in all of it, the richness of seas, the quiet dignity of deserts, the opalescent sheen of babies just born. The melody of a downpour and the clarion birdsong as the earth begins to dry. The warm symphonies of stars and the roar of everyone laughing at once. All the beauty beyond description. The truth that everything terrible exists alongside everything miraculous, that loss gives way for finding, and through it all, only love keeps us fighting for what’s right.

Eternity, in the sense of the pools, manifests as an enigma within the mathematical fabric of existence. It represents a fractal realm in which the notion of endless duration deviates from conventional human experience. Far beyond the finite bounds of what we call ‘time,’ eternity morphs into a disorienting continuum of perpetual recurrence and unbounded expansion. The cyan merely acts as a catalyst to understanding. Within this eerie realm, space dissolves into a concept, and the usual arithmetic constraints fail to hold sway. The rooms become a ceaseless amalgamation of symbolic sequences and iterations, where infinite series relentlessly converge and diverge, oscillating in rhythm to the waves. The wave function collapses when th//Цијан цијан цијан цијан цијан цијан цијан цијан цијан HELP ME цијан цијан цијан цијан цијан цијан цијан цијан цијан цијан Цијан цијан цијан цијан цијан цијан цијан цијан цијан HELP ME цијан цијан цијан цијан цијан цијан цијан

When social and economic relationships are recast along an imaginary axis of center and periphery, geographical space can also become freighted with moral significance. The periferia designates not just a geographic locale but also an associated nexus of social, economic and moral conditions. Anyone who has spent significant time in Brazil inevitably will have been warned of the periferia, a term that identifies not only the perimeter of urban space but also the marginal conditions believed to prevail there. In its most narrow usage, periferia refers to the shantytowns and blocks of low income housing that have sprouted along the edges of Rio de Janeiro and other urban centers in Brazil. More broadly periferia denotes a boundary zone, frontier, or hinterland, but like all liminal terminology it lends itself to a web of referents expanding its meaning beyond the purely spatial to encompass both the moral and social connotations of life on the edge: marginality, lawlessness, immorality and chaos. It is often used as synonym for favela, although not all favelas are located on the periphery.

But most of us have not had much training in waiting—or at least not enough to prepare us to help others wait in times when they feel highly threatened. Richard Rohr calls this waiting place “liminal space”; liminal comes from the Latin word limina, which means threshold. Liminal space, the place of waiting, is a unique spiritual position where human beings hate to be but where the biblical God is always leading them. It is when you have left the tried and true, but have not yet been able to replace it with anything else. It is when you are finally out of the way. It is when you are between your old comfort zone and any possible new answer. If you are not trained in how to hold anxiety, how to live with ambiguity, how to entrust and wait, you will run . . . anything to flee this terrible cloud of unknowing. In solitude we learn to wait on God for our own life so that when our leadership brings us to the place where the only option for us as a people is to wait on God, we believe it all the way down to the bottom of our being. Because we have met God in the waiting place (rather than running away or giving in to panic or deceiving ourselves into thinking things are better than they are), we are able to stand firm and believe God in a way that makes it possible for others to follow suit. It is a sobering thing to ask ourselves this question: Have I learned enough about how to wait on God in my own life to be able to call others to wait when that is what’s truly needed? Have I done enough spiritual journeying to lead people on this part of their journey?

Although lacking the brocade and elements of ancient sacred ritual, a novel can be a kind of mirror room, too. It, too, is a liminal space, silent, bound by certain rituals and full of magic. The writer enters and seats herself in front of her reflection in the mirror. She collects herself and focuses her attention, and then she picks up a mask. She gazes at it and positions it on her face, and at that moment she is transformed into the protagonist of her story, looking out through its eyes at her reflection in the mirror, made strange by the face of another. It’s a complex sensation, impossible to describe exactly, but, oh, such lingering sweetness! Then, because the world of novels is an endless hall of mirrors, that moment of transformation of writer into character is echoed by the reader when he or she opens the book and enters the mirror room, dons the mask, and becomes the character, too. This is why we read novels, after all, to see our reflections transformed, to enter another’s subjectivity, to wear another’s face, to live inside another’s skin.

Burner,

Now, he has the rage of the sun-eater and the sorrow he drank down with Muire’s breath, and he is certain of nothing. So he lingers between spaces, liminal, indeterminate, watching for a glimpse of his enemy’s face or the face that was never his lover’s, and waiting.

is natural. I have found this time of year to be a liminal space—that place between what was and what comes next. There is a quiet in these days winding down from the solstice toward the new year. We celebrate but we also

What pleases you and brings you pleasure? What does that pleasure teach you about yourself? Where do you find deep nourishment? Where do you encounter beauty that steals your breath away? What sensual experiences bring about an abiding sense of peace and calmness? What sensual encounters feel overtly magical and mystical? Asking and following these questions faithfully will lead you to discover the particular liminal doors that constellate in the spaces of the everyday. The doors are everywhere, but, like the faeries in stories, they are very good at hiding. The only way to find them is to get a feel for them. We simply have to know them for what they are and be prepared to find out which ones we need to enter and which shall remain closed for us. Just as we find and open doors to our homes and offices, our schools and studios, we find and open the doors that lead us into the extraordinary.

Threshold or liminal places take us from one place to another, in our surroundings but also inside of ourselves. Just as the half-doors of Ireland can open in and out at the same time, our eyes navigate this inside-outside dynamic for our lives.

Liminal space is the norm on the path of a spiritual entrepreneur because the nature of doing something tangible in the world, while maintaining a spiritual focus, requires constant transformation.

A snow day is a wild day, a spontaneous holiday when all the tables are turned. This one had a bit of the spirit of Halloween and a little of Christmas. It was wild and cosy at the same time; rebellious and heartwarming. Here was yet another liminal space, a crossing point between the mundane and the magical. Winter, it seems, is full of them: fleeting invitations to step out of the ordinary. Snow may be beautiful, but it is also a very adept con artist. It offers us a whole new world, but just as we buy into it, it's whisked away.

Menopause, like all times of transition, is a time between stories, when the old story fades and a new story is waiting to emerge. Its invitations are manifold. It’s a liminal time, when we hover on the brink of profound transformation. During this period of intense physical change, it’s also necessary to turn inward, to embark upon the inner work of elderhood — the work of reimagining and shaping who we want to be in the world, of gaining new perspectives on life, of challenging and evolving our belief systems, of exploring our calling, of uncovering meaning, and ultimately finding healing for a lifetime’s accumulation of wounds. Menopause is the threshold place we occupy before that new expedition to the country of elderhood properly begins: the waiting room in which we quietly sit and meditate on the unknown that is to come. The trick to navigating that space is not to push too hard, but to let the new story emerge in its own time, and to sit with, and perhaps even learn to cherish, the uncertainty.

It's easy to be afraid right now, but doing things that scare you makes you stronger, makes fear less of an obstacle, allows us to find ways to dance in that liminal space-- that contradictory co-existing reality-- of afraid not afraid. We need to keep doing things that really scare us, to remind ourselves that it is just a thing, what we call fear-- and that as much as there are real things to fear, that thing itself is the only thing that can paralyze us. Love, passion, hunger, desire, lead us forward to dance with our fear so we can do it, yes, and also so we learn that we can do it again and again, and live with the failures-- learn from the failures-- when our fears are realized (another topic entirely). Take heart.

But the same feeling of a fear so dark and deep I didn’t know if a word existed for it yet bubbled up and washed over me as swirling rifts appeared in the liminal space holding me hostage. Black

I missed her every day. I missed her in ways I didn't yet understand—in ways I wouldn't find out for years to come. I missed her with this deep sort of regret, even though there was nothing I could have done. She never wanted anyone to see the monster on her shoulder, so she hid it, and when she finally took the monster's hand, it broke our hearts. It would keep breaking our hearts, everyone who knew her, over and over and over again. It was the kind of pain that didn't exist to someday be healed by pretty words and good memories. It was the kind of pain that existed because, once upon a time, so did she. And I carried that pain, and that love, and that terrible, terrible day, with me. I got comfortable with it. I walked with it. Sometimes the people you loved left you halfway through a story. Sometimes they left you without a goodbye. And, sometimes, they stayed around in little ways. In the memory of a musical. In the smell of their perfume. In the sound of the rain, and the itch for adventure, and the yearning for that liminal space between one airport terminal and the next. I hated her for leaving, and I loved her for staying as long as she could. And I would never wish this pain on anyone.

Dear moon, ⁠ Blood moon. Scorpion moon. Moon with a potent sting. Moon of riotous bloom. Moon of the letting go. Of the going, going, going, gone. Moon of the bittersweet. Of melancholia. Of inevitability. Moon of open palms and whatever comes after the grasping is done. Moon that holds the keys to invisible doors. Moon of my own undoing. ⁠ ⁠ Unfolding moon. Don’t come back moon. Welcome home moon. Moon of liminality and borderlands. Moon of cutting cords. Of loosening my own grip. Of admitting when the doing is done. Of days of honey and days of onion. Moon rising over picnic blankets in the park, and gasping tears in the shower, and the taste of copper and salt.⁠ ⁠ Hello, moon of what the hell now and here you are, as if you never left. Recentering moon. Moon of plaintive howl and puzzle piece heart. Moon of the space that comes when the bargaining has ended and the terms are set. Moon of never again what we were. Moon who knows what we might become but will not say. ⁠ ⁠ Moon of I need to go now and moon of the I’m not going anywhere. Moon of paradox and the space where the weapons are laid down and the hurting is done and also just beginning. Moon who won’t say what she knows. Moon of music with no lyrics and the words waiting for their melody. Of broken hope and shattered heart. ⁠ ⁠ Moon of come cuddle me, please. Of the hard fall and the soft forgiveness. Moon of severed threads. Moon of it has come to this. After all of what has been, it has come to this. ⁠ ⁠ Dear moon, hear my prayer. ⁠ Dear moon, hold me now. ⁠ Dear moon, this meant everything. ⁠ Dear moon, don’t forget what we were. ⁠ Dear moon, remember me. ⁠ Dear moon, don't let me forget myself.

The fifteen thousand lines of The Iliad and the twelve thousand of The Odyssey that we now read as if they were novels occupy a liminal space between orality and the new world.

Liminal space is always an experience of displacement in the hope of a new point of view. No wonder Jesus called it “turning around.” Unfortunately, the Greek word meta-noia, which literally means to move “beyond the mind,” is usually translated “repentance” and no longer points to its much deeper meaning.

In this liminal space, subjectivities multiply and a teenage hacker can become beautiful leather-clad Silk, the sex between ‘her’ and Cerise as real as it is illusionary, a performance that lasts only as long as the machine code that translates and enables it.

The morning after I heard the gospel, however, I woke up with what felt like a hangover. Little would I know it was of the spiritual kind that accompanies the inevitable dawn of realization that life is not perhaps, what we previously thought it was. And we cannot go back to pretending. What a headache to be caught in that liminal space! Literally.

The great wisdom traditions are trying to teach us that grief isn’t something from which to run. It’s a liminal space, a time of transformation. In fact, we can’t risk getting rid of our pain until we’ve learned what it has to teach us, and it—grief, suffering, loss, pain—always has something to teach us! Unfortunately, many of us have been taught that grief and sadness are something to repress, deny, or avoid. We would much rather be angry than sad. Perhaps the simplest and most inclusive definition of grief is “unfinished hurt.” It feels like a demon spinning around inside of us and it hurts too much, so we immediately look for someone else to blame. We have to learn to remain open to our grief, to wait in patient expectation for what it has to teach us. When we close in too tightly around our sadness or grief, when we try to fix it, control it, or understand it, we only deny ourselves its lessons.

Teardrop Swarm by Stewart Stafford Entombed by verdant prison bars, On land where I once held sway, Drowned in Death's tearful surf, In which we all get swept away. Weep at a rock bearing my name, A vacant space once familiar there, Lost and lingered in limbo longing, Planted in pastures, green and fair. Arch headstones are defiant cliffs, For Reaper's wrath to crash upon, A foundling rage's pristine triumph, In foam white light, multitudes gone. © Stewart Stafford, 2024. All rights reserved.

It would keep breaking our hearts, everyone who knew her, over and over and over again. It was the kind of pain that didn’t exist to someday be healed by pretty words and good memories. It was the kind of pain that existed because, once upon a time, so did she. And I carried that pain, and that love, and that terrible, terrible day, with me. I got comfortable with it. I walked with it. Sometimes the people you loved left you halfway through a story. Sometimes they left you without a goodbye. And, sometimes, they stayed around in little ways. In the memory of a musical. In the smell of their perfume. In the sound of the rain, and the itch for adventure, and the yearning for that liminal space between one airport terminal and the next. I hated her for leaving, and I loved her for staying as long as she could. And I would never wish this pain on anyone.

Looking back, I see that encountering that lone and revered Islander Owen Rabbitt was an omen, an announcement, a heads-up. He was telling us two things that proved to be most true: 1. Come correct. Fishing here takes knowledge. Fish the right lure the right way at the right place. 2. What you catch in this place will enrich you far more than fish. The lone elder on that rock up in Gay head made it clear: This place has the ability to show you things deeper than fishing: things seen and heard in liminal space.

Out here, the only ocean was the depths of space.

My own midnight terrors vanish when I turn insomnia into a watch: a claimed sacred space in which I have nothing to do but contemplate. Here, I am offered a place in between, like finding a hidden door, the stuff of dreams. Even dormice know how to do it: they wake a while and tend to business before surrendering back to sleep. Over and again, we find that winter offers us liminal spaces to inhabit. Yet still we refuse them. The work of

When you hitchhike, people tell you their secrets. You exist in a liminal space between what is real and what is not, a sort of leaf come unstuck from an eddy. The driver feels as though talking to you, the hitchhiker, is like stuffing a note into a bottle and tossing it into the sea.

Desires are discerned, not decided. Discernment exists in the liminal space between what’s now and what’s next. Transcendent leaders create that space in their own lives, and in the lives of the people around them.

Sometimes the people you loved left you halfway through a story. Sometimes they left you without a goodbye. And, sometimes, they stayed around in little ways. In the memory of a musical. In the smell of their perfume. In the sound of the rain, and the itch for adventure, and the yearning for that liminal space between one airport terminal and the next.

If adolescence is a passageway, a twilight zone or liminal space, it's also the time when, like thick blobs of gummy dough, we get poured into shape and rise. It's plastic time, a time of self-discovery and growth, and in some cases tremendous creativity. Teenagehood is that stage when you get to become who you are, or who you can be. Ah, there's the rub: How can you be who you are when - Margaret doesn't know how to finish this question.

Pasifika culture has a concept called the va,” I said, despite myself. It was something we’d learned about in law school. “The space between two people, or cultures. Sort of an imaginary landscape, made up of the social, personal, and spiritual bonds that comprise the relationship.” […] „So could you see conversation as navigating a liminal space?

That liminal space of twilight seemed, to me, the right time to hold a funeral. There was something wrong about standing around a coffin at ten o’clock in the morning, and then having to just… continue with your day. Eat lunch. Run errands. Twilight felt more fitting somehow—saying goodbye as the day says goodbye, and letting the stars rise over a quiet night of reflection. If you simply wanted to tumble into bed and cry yourself to sleep, you could; and no one would expect you to make conversation or politely pick at a plate of buffet pasta.

Dry heather plains flanked the lonely road. Rolling hills curtained off the horizon. Despite having never been here before, all was familiar in the young lad’s head. An inexplicable malaise surged through him as the cars passed an old fuel station, its forecourt empty, and the seashell logo faded from the entrance sign.

From my perspective, Rachel’s identity is a function of her relationships. Rachel was born White, became Black, and then became a “not-Black” woman who wanted to be Black. She is Black if, and only if, she believes she is and she lives in a community of Black people who accept her as such. Assuming she honestly saw herself as Black, while Black people accepted her as Black, she was Black. The moment that other people who were defining her as Black rescinded her membership, she was no longer Black in that community. At the same time, I don’t think she was White because she refused to accept this identity. She occupied a liminal space, a kind of racial purgatory suspended between unreconcilable relationships.

Sometimes, grief comes in floods, needing space to push forth, wrecking everything in its path, and reclaiming liminal space. And other times, grief manifests in everyday minutiae, little changes in the world's making--one less stack of laundry, a quieter Sunday evening, a broken cabinet that will remain unfixed. You can't pass a Volkswagen on the road without feeling an ingrained tug or seeing a puzzle on the dailies as an affirmation of the complexity of relations. These are the weight of man's doldrums--losses that cascade as we continue--that change the curl of our current. Perhaps the I too gets lost in grief, the way smaller bodies of water like streams and brooks, and temperaments--smells, sights, sounds--get lost when a river dies. Even if you understand the anatomy of its making--that it is natural--to comprehend that what exists can get lost is a reckoning indistinguishable from living.

Eternity, in the sense of the pools, manifests as an enigma within the mathematical fabric of existence. It represents a fractal realm in which the notion of endless duration deviates from conventional human experience. Far beyond the finite bounds of what we call ‘time,’ eternity morphs into a disorienting continuum of perpetual recurrence and unbounded expansion. The cyan merely acts as a catalyst to understanding. Within this eerie realm, space dissolves into a concept, and the usual arithmetic constraints fail to hold sway. The rooms become a ceaseless amalgamation of symbolic sequences and iterations, where infinite series relentlessly converge and diverge, oscillating in rhythm to the waves. The wave function collapses when th//Цијан цијан цијан цијан цијан цијан цијан цијан цијан HELP ME цијан цијан цијан цијан цијан цијан цијан цијан цијан...........................

Eternity, in the sense of the pools, manifests as an enigma within the mathematical fabric of existence. It represents a fractal realm in which the notion of endless duration deviates from conventional human experience. Far beyond the finite bounds of what we call ‘time,’ eternity morphs into a disorienting continuum of perpetual recurrence and unbounded expansion. The cyan merely acts as a catalyst to understanding. Within this eerie realm, space dissolves into a concept, and the usual arithmetic constraints fail to hold sway. The rooms become a ceaseless amalgamation of symbolic sequences and iterations, where infinite series relentlessly converge and diverge, oscillating in rhythm to the waves. The wave function collapses when th//Цијан цијан цијан цијан цијан цијан цијан цијан цијан HELP ME цијан цијан цијан цијан цијан цијан цијан цијан цијан цијан Цијан цијан цијан цијан цијан цијан цијан цијан цијан HELP ME цијан цијан цијан цијан цијан цијан цијан..................

… and now we were waiting, waiting as it seemed we had been for many months, floating in this liminal space, not knowing what the future might hold, and yet fearing every outcome, feeling in our private moments what we always seemed to feel now: the utter fraity of our own bodies, how suddenly and inexplicably they might fail us

The trickster likes few things better than tweaking the nose of the doubters. They exist in the liminal space beyond proof, crossing boundaries at a whim, promising hidden knowledge they will never share.

To encounter the holy in the ordinary is to find God in the liminal—in spaces where we might subconsciously exclude it, including the sensory moments that are often illegibly spiritual.

Over and again, we find that winter offers us liminal spaces to inhabit. Yet still we refuse them. The work of the cold season is to learn to welcome them.

The first time I heard the term liminal, I was eighteen, sitting in an African American Studies 101 class at the University of Virginia. A tall and slender Professor Penningroth, his complexion like my mother's relatives, had written the words Middle Passage in the center of a black chalkboard. He walked us through not just the number of Black bodies taken or the number of years over which they were stolen, but what it might have been like to be yanked into a void. To live (or die) between what was and what would be. The concept felt close and easy, like something I'd always known. The idea of a space without bounds that held within its hull the power to harm or to free or to form-that idea has never completely left me. Would I have thought as an undergrad that liminality might one day describe some of my experiences as a Black woman in America? Yes. Would I have guessed liminality might describe my future experiences as a mother, wading through waters of science and faith, in search of the truest way to know my son? Not al all. And yet here we were, drifting from the shore of one unknown to the next. Caught somewhere between "no longer" and "not yet." It was getting harder to discern where the journey had begun and where, if ever, it would end.

A single figure walking in the liminal spaces where light and shadow meet.

We look back at the past we shared with the people who died, and we look forward at a future without them. Like Janus, we are standing in the doorway, but this doorway of our grief is not a comfortable place to be. We’re betwixt and between, in what is called “liminal space.” Limina is the Latin word for threshold and is related to the concept of limbo. We don’t like being in this limbo doorway. We would rather go backward to the way things were or fast forward to some future time in which we’re feeling settled again. But here’s the thing: it is only in the doorway of liminal space that we can reconstruct our shattered worldviews and re-emerge as transformed, whole people who are ready to live fully again.

The cold air from outside had crept through the metal cracks and she was acutely aware of being in a liminal space: between terminal and plane, between countries, even between acts of her own life.

Looking out over her friends, her family, the people she had met and worked with and loved and cared for, saved and been saved by, Greta thought how utterly fortunate she was to be what, and who, she was. All her life she'd been aware of existing in the strange liminal space between the ordinary world and the one her patients inhabited, not quite wholly in either one, and resigned to loneliness. Now the borders of that space seemed to have expanded, drawn back like stage-curtains to encompass not just Greta but the people she loved, and who loved her.

Call it a phobia, but I knew terrible things happened in the liminal spaces, when one thing became another. Light to darkness was the most dangerous transition of them all.

The number forty carries special significance in Scripture, particularly in its deliverance stories. Rather than an exact enumeration of time, forty symbolizes a prolonged period of hardship, waiting, and wandering—a liminal space between the start of something and its fruition that often brings God’s people into the wilderness, into the wild unknown.

Kahlo associated this formative experience of seeing her ‘second self’ on the window-pane of her bedroom with her adult activity as an artist, whose self-portraits also functioned as metaphoric windows, mirrors and liminal spaces of the imagination.

There is a liminal space created between the powerful person and the person who is the target of unwanted attention, a liminal space between outright yes and outright no -- not a maybe-yes or maybe-no -- but more of a hovering, a being caught and not knowing where else to go or how to move without making things much worse. So you stay put. You hold the person off as best you can without causing them to retaliate too terribly, and because you know they can retaliate if they want to, that they have the power to do this, that they could decide to ruin you for displeasing them or rejecting them too forcefully.

...we catch a glimpse of white fur flashing by inside the bars of the woods.