I’m not much of a bath woman. Soaking in a tub isn’t a pleasurable experience. The bathroom is a utilitarian space: bodily functions, brushing my teeth, doing my hair, putting on makeup when I actually wore makeup1. For relaxation? Unwinding? The bath is not it. Though, I think this may be because I’ve only had apartments where the tub is one of those wall units, an unsightly thing, having decades of previous bodies and in various states of disrepair, which makes the thought of my naked body touching those surfaces unenticing.
But, were my bathroom one of those exuberant affairs, with a claw foot tub, and a view of the mountains, candles of various shapes and lengths and smells, a glass of Rioja, I could see how this might lead to relaxation, the water just hot enough like slipping into a Miami night in the middle of July. The act of bathing, an act of enjoying the transitional space between a hard workday into a calm evening. This is a liminal space, a period of change, of transition, the in-between space, where we move from what was to what may become.
Every life has liminal spaces. Some of these are ubiquitous in a human’s life, such as any graduation, whether it’s high school, karate belts, passing a motorcycle license test for the second time you took it by a kind instructor who could see the struggle. Liminal spaces are abundant at weddings, drawn out in divorces, all too quickly moved through during birth, sad and beautiful and trying in the days leading up to a loved one’s death. We were something else before this space, on our way to someone new, but we haven’t yet embraced the next space, the next part of our life, of who we are to become.
I’ve been thinking of my own liminal space that I am currently living in. There was an inkling of buying a home a week or so ago, but the feeling leaves me like snow melt, the wandering, ephemeral soul greening once more. I love living here, love the little community I’ve built, love the friends I’ve made. Yet, at the same time, I also feel drawn away, drawn out, stretched outward, unsure if this is my forever home. I don’t want to push through this liminal space, this hazy, lovely era I find myself in. I don’t want to try and make it permanent prematurely. The ability to stay in it—this liminal, transitional space—without the commitment to move in one direction or another is something new for me. The next thing needs to find me, bump into it at the corner store or in the sunrise or in the stars that shine at twilight, rather than me forcing something that isn’t yet ripe or fecund.
This past year has been something else. It’s been love and light, hurt and dark, and I blessedly, finally feel like I am at home with myself, at peace with the woman I have become and continue to be. I seem to have slowed down, learned to step to my own beat. I can feel the old habits and patterns creeping in here and there, and they are the parts I don’t want to see again. The flippant remarks about bad drivers, having opinions on things that I should not have opinions on, fear and concern rising like bile for events that have not happened.
Let it all go, Nikki. Remember you are inconsequential in it all, in everything. You are a dust mote falling in space—don’t concern yourself with anything other than pen and paper. Concern yourself with what is in front of you, what is present in this moment.
When I brought up these liminal spaces with my friend K, she mentioned it didn’t seem like I was staying put, staying in it. She said that I was trying so many different things, moving in so many directions. She’s right. I am trying on everything, trying out everything2, blurring outward like spokes on a spinning wheel. I thought about this for a moment, about how it is that I am moving in so many directions but feel such peace and stability and joy at feeling like I am staying put. It’s really that I’m not attached to any outcome, that the fruits of my adventures don’t actually need to bear fruit. I am unconcerned that any event, class, adventure result in something concrete or actionable. It is enough that I experience whatever it is I’m doing. I think I am happy with no result. The point is to stay in this transitional place, the in-between place, the place between who I was and who I am to be3. I am learning who this new person is, finding out how she moves in this world with the confidence and lack of care to what anyone thinks of her.
It’s a strange new land I find myself in. I have this wide expanse of uncharted land before me. I am in no rush to move through this earth. I am an explorer. I went through this when I was becoming an adult, as I think we all do. That space between teenage hood and young adult, where we try on different personas, see what fits, see what resonates. It’s a time marked by a lot of change and questioning, tumult and upheaval. I am going through it again, except this time I have some wisdom, hard won through so many perfect mistakes. And I have confidence in what I’m capable of and the knowledge that if something goes sideways, I can make it through4.
You know what it feels like? It’s like I’m in a bubble of my own making, allowing me to feel and experience everything, connecting to the larger world, being in sync with people in my life, my kindness and love at the center of all my interactions without the requirement of needing acceptance or love in return or concern that any one person thinks a certain way about me. Honestly, there’s a freedom in that, and I don’t know whether it comes because of confidence or self-compassion, though I suspect it’s both. And I don’t want to misstate that not caring what anyone thinks of me implies that I am uncaring—far from it, actually. For all of my life, I cared what people thought, cared about what people expected or wanted from me, cared about the roles I was supposed to fill, like water in a plastic bag, expanding outward to fill each wrinkle and crease. That bag always belonged to someone else, and who I was had to adapt and change with each owner. Now? Now, it is my bag and I have flung it out before me, open to it filling with a gust of wind, particles of sand, drops of water, or embers from a fire. Whatever it is, I want it all. I want to be swallowed by the world, drown in its embrace. There are no expectations.
So, this is my liminal space, my transitory period, and it is home for the foreseeable future. It is open, alive, breathing. Liminal spaces used to feel like dead zones, lifeless affairs, a cold cadaver. They were periods to get through quickly and efficiently. How many days have I wasted trying to claw my way through them in the past? How many weeks did I let pass by without seeing the beauty and grandeur of the in-between spaces? It was marked by days of yearning and labor. But not this time.