liminal space Archives

leaking cup

and cracks between worlds

There is a leak in these cups. For three mornings in a row now, my coffee is gone before I am anywhere near ready to begin anything. And the compass must have fallen into a crevice––or crevasse, somewhere in the storm of this mess. I like the dreaming better when I am not pulled from it so soon, and when I can see the distinctions between to and from. Writing that sentence sounds like an admission of having lost essential bearings, of not knowing whether this is coming or going, which is more than I meant to unpack so early.

I rehearse the choreography of resolve: I will sort this out. Here, like this. This is a bed. This is a room. The alarm, Monday. The empty cup where the coffee should still be. In the kitchen, the knife beside the bread until the moment comes to cut, to feed. And I balk before reading the news again, not ready yet for the next installment of who is eating whom; it seems that we have yet to admit something to ourselves, about our tastes.

In the last dream, there were a number of us in need of carrying, away from some alarm. I was among these, but in the last scene a carrier, taking whomever I could fit in my arms. The carried were weakened, ill, and although larger than me in normal times, presented themselves small enough to fit under an arm.

Here we are, the I of my dream was saying to these, here we are and checking as I hurried, are you okay, saying as I hurried, here we are and we are almost. Saying, we are almost here. And now, time to go to some other where, more familiar in setting and somehow much less clear.

quake

comings and goings

The nerve of these meetings: skin into world, where whoever you are steps into and from, in her shaking assembly of beings made of moving parts. Life teems at the edges between us: land into sea, forest into meadow, the sill of a doorway. Then, now. Here are both, arriving.

Translations

Between worlds.

To move between the domestic and the otherworldly need not be some hero’s leap across some chasm, triumphant. We drifted back and forth, more gaze than choice. In this way, our tears translated to the pools of mermaid songs at bath time. Come, littles. Now the scalp, now the towels at our tails. Daylight done, lights out, out! The mystery had to do with its return in the morning, and we whispered, Tomorrow. Of the light and the pinecones, rabbits, and blue jays. They would. We would be there. We hoped tomorrow to put acorns in a pile, that the squirrels would see them and approve. That they would see us and know. We called our good nights to the moon. It was changing and we meant to see how. It pulled our gaze like tides, and we were out again.

Between Worlds

With Graham Greene.

You wanted only something hard and certain to hold against the flux when the dark sky of your childhood pressed its wet lips against the windowpane. The heart of the matter, you suspected, was conflict: between this world and the next, sanctity and goodness, but the connection between these defied reasoning. Wanting nothing of the graceless chromium world, only sainthood or damnation interested you, with their questions about unknown and unobtainable Heavens on the other side of death. Yours was a world in slant, angled like the posture of a desperate man with courage to frighten the flock, in clumsy prayer.

***

Today is the birthday of English writer Graham Greene (1904-1991), best known for his novels, which often feature characters in states of existential and moral crisis. In honor of this day, I spent time this morning with these two articles: Graham Greene’s Dark Heart (by Joan Acocella, The New Yorker, March 2021) and The Two Worlds of Graham Greene (by Herbert R. Haber in Modern Fiction Studies, Autumn 1957).

The In-Between

In any rite of passage, there is a state where the pilgrim leaves the known world and prepares to enter the place where she is transformed.

In any rite of passage, there is a state where the pilgrim leaves the known world and prepares to enter the place where she is transformed. This is called the threshold, or liminal state.

The first version of this word I ever heard was called limbo, and according to the nuns this was where you got stuck if you skipped confession. Apparently, doing this was about as damning as failing to wear clean underwear, because you could get in a terrible accident at any time.

What’s it like? We all wanted to know. They said it wasn’t exactly eternal fire but it wasn’t clouds and angels, either. It was just forever. And who wants that when you are so close to a final release? They were not forthcoming with other details, so the rest was left to the imagination.

I turned the word over. Limbo. It called to mind the image of a doll version of a person floating in a watercolor atmosphere with limbs outstretched.

I thought about people running and then swimming toward higher ground when the floods came. And about the dream monsters chasing, the jolt in the stomach, shouting So close! I thought about my grandparents, how they would stand behind me in church before I was even old enough for Communion, the pillars of their bodies like trees, and me in the shade. I wanted to stay in that place forever, but I felt it coming, the shadowy force coming closer with every passing year — so close! –– and I dreaded arriving in the space of being severed from their shade and the quiet of being nowhere and no one, with no one asking, What now?

Then, years passed, and I felt far removed from this moment, but close enough that when I thought of it again, something flickered at the corners of my lips, in recognition of how there had been a time when it was possible to think of such an endless in-between as a threat for something that might happen, and not as what already was.