Liminally Yours

not then, not yet

Photo by Scarbor Siu on Unsplash

Before the idea of liminal space became common psychological parlance, the anthropologist Arnold van Gennep developed the theory to describe the three phases of rites of passage in tribal societies: preliminary, liminal, and post-liminal. Liminal comes from the Latin word “limen” which means “threshold.” Victor Turner later developed this theory to describe a more general theory of change: separation, transition, and incorporation. The liminal state is one of ambiguity. You are neither here nor there, disoriented, uncertain, feet firmly off the ground as you move toward a future you don’t understand from experience, and can only imagine.

It’s hard to say how long I was in the stage of separation. The easy answer is January 6th, the day Chris drove away and left me. But I think it started way earlier. There was a sense of separateness which began during covid, an ideological shift which kept me questioning whether we could weather the storm with such completely different views of reality. But the clear undeniable moment of separation was when he left, and I was thrust into this, a liminal state, which is both intolerable and comforting, scary and peaceful. There are no real rules for what happens here in the in between place of not then and not yet.

But there is a reason the concept of liminality comes from an anthropologist who was most interested in religion. The idea came from examining rites of passage, from child to adult, from pregnancy to motherhood, from life to death. The most important life events are marked with some kind of ceremony. But there is no real ceremony to mark what I’m in right now, so I lean into practices which help me feel not so terribly despondant. Almost every day there is a moment when I think “What the hell happened?” It was so intense and dramatic and scary. And then it was over. At least that chapter is. I have a clear morning routine which involves coffee, supplements, reading, my animals. I have meetings I go to every week, friends I see or call every week, a therapist. I have structure to this space, even though the very nature of the liminal space is unstructured.

In architecture the liminal space is the hallway, the passage from one room to the next, the waiting room at a doctor’s office when you are anticipating news of your condition. The passage may be well lit or dim, straight or winding, and you could remain in that space indefinitely but it’s not a good idea. That’s not what it’s for. Alice in Wonderland’s liminal space is the rabbit hole, an exhilerating freefall between reality and another world.

Grief is liminal. When my mother died I was in that place for a long time, between being the daughter of a living mother and incorporating memories of her as the only way I could still know her.

I have a sense of this liminality I now experience as a place I’ll be living in for a while. There is deep sadness, uncertainty, but also a sense that what comes next might be exactly what I need. I don’t know what I want. I’m quite clear about what I don’t want. But knowing what I don’t want doesn’t clearly define what I do want, and this is my job right now, to sort it out.

Tarot can be a wonderful clarifier when we are in liminal spaces, not as divinatory tools, but as exploratory vehicles which help us get through change. Today I’ll meet with my mentor Laurie to work on this. I’ve also been reading Anne Lamott’s Help, Thanks, Wow, whose title makes me cringe but the message is helpful. I have been most excellent at asking for help during these liminal times. And for the help I have received I am very thankful. The wow comes from understanding how incredibly supported I am, and that I am also so much stronger than I thought I was. The liminal space is surprising in finding out what you have, who you are.

I leave this here. Know that if you too are in a space of change, uncertainty, ambiguity, pain, that you aren’t alone. I’m here and will be for the forseeable future, in the waiting room, the rabbit hole, the empty classroom, the dark forest path where only certain parts are illuminated by the moon.

As always, thank you for reading.

xo Hanna