The Work of Liminal Space

Time is, of course, doing its steady work on every object ever made. This complex relationship between the maker, an emotionally invested object, and the growing distance between them is not new, only rediscovered each generation, whether by an artist, a mourner, a mother, or a soldier… We let go with the hope others will grab hold.”

– Dario Robleto

I first heard the term “liminal space” in a Richard Rohr daily meditation. It is one of those sayings you begin to carry around and applies when all other words fail. Liminal space merely means the space between what is not and what is — a transition space; the waiting room; a purgatory. 

I recently finished my first nonfiction book since last year. One day at Goodwill, I happened to pick up the now-nearly twenty-year-old The Kite Runner by Khaled Hosseini and dove in. The novel took me by surprise in many ways. The story of two young boys who wind up on two different paths due to trauma, and its description of two Afghanistan’s I’ve never known or read about: the one before the Taliban and the one after. Devastation not unlike walking among the ruins in Rome, knowing a beautiful thing once existed and has a story to tell.

As the novel comes to an end, the narrator talks about endings, be it novel or movie, and how everyone always wants to know what happens at the final scene or page. Was it interesting? Worthwhile? I could not help but think of how I find discomfort in not knowing or lacking a conclusion. I am infamous for Googling or Reddit-ing my way to theories and spoilers. I am terrible at inhabiting the liminal space, at being present to its invitation to sit, wait, and see. And living in a time where a global pandemic sets neither a timer nor offers a spoiler completely stupidifies me. 

On my last Instagram post, I mentioned social media became a way for me to try and encapsulate moments and memories but really … it was more than that. I have found myself living through the lens of others in quick re-posts and story-shares. Even though the posts and words are noble and true, this began to feel like we were all scratching at the same door but no one was answering. Weary, I realized I need to create space for myself to sit, think critically about what is before me, let the subject itself move in me, and maybe — if necessary — offer meaningful dialogue in response.

Because I wasn’t doing this, it became increasingly more difficult to find a focus. I began asking myself, “What am I actually passionate about?” I always want to give my all to what I bring to the table. Carrying 14 different topics, trying to maintain a passion for each, felt … wrong. I knew I needed to step away, make contact with the ground I was standing on, look up to see what was in front of me, and lean into the present in a more tangible way. Intentionality, I am finding, can be an invitation to the liminal space.

One day, perhaps and hopefully not too far in the future, Black Lives Matter will not be a political statement, but a peoplehood statement. Still bold, full of truth, but not controversial. One day, migrant children and their parents will no longer fear the borderlands they escape to. One day is the torch I want to pass onto the next generations; my son, his friends, and beyond. 

Until then, it is my duty to stand in the contradicting space that lies between What Is Not and What Is while also proclaiming What Can Be. I cannot spoil what I let unfold. Instead, I can put forth theories and hopes and dreams of what I would love to see happen. Living in the liminal space means I am allowing the discomfort or tension to guide, fuel, and transform. It is thick and it is thin; it is difficult and it is worth it.