Are you familiar with the word liminal? It’s a wonderfully evocative word that only rarely works its way comfortably into a conversation. It means a transition or as my dictionary says, occupying a position at, or on both sides of, a boundary or threshold. I love that idea, just imagine being on both sides of a boundary at once. That in-between kind of space can be frightening and disorienting but it can also offer space for both remembering and expectation. In Michigan now, we are in that liminal time with one season not over, the other not yet begun. Last evening my husband and I sat on our back deck and reveled in the soft warm air that we know will disappear all too soon. We were reluctant to go inside, even as the sun went down, and the birds grew quiet.
I was reminded of the word and the time when I was out walking this morning and noticed the first leaves of the season turning. They shouldn’t have come as a surprise, just as I shouldn’t be surprised by how dark it is now at seven in the morning. It happens every year. But still, it’s nice to be reminded that seasons don’t change overnight, that time isn’t really pushing us faster and faster, that we don’t have to move any more quickly than a tree donning its fall wardrobe. Here's to liminality.
