Waking up to birdsong usually means good things: a quieting of life, a countryside retreat, a holiday. And for me, right now – a welcome lull between two chapters of my life.
I’m cat-sitting for two weeks before I move into a new place. We talk about arrangements being ‘up in the air’ and life is exactly that for me at the moment. So it seems fitting that I’m staying in a third-floor flat that looks out into the tree canopy. From where I’m writing, parakeets hopping between the leafless branches are at eye level.
Apart from the cat and her owners, no one knows that I’m here. There’s no post for me here, no deliveries, no neighbours I know to say ‘hi’ to.
The last six months of 2023 were noisy. But now I’m no longer a lodger, I don’t need to broadcast my whereabouts like I did then. There are no more emails about the flat I shared with my ex – it’s sold now. I finish my full-time job at a charity on Friday. There will be no more Microsoft Teams and life will be even quieter.
There was a time when I’d have been anxious about a lull like this. There’s a big difference between enjoying pockets of time alone with the comfort of someone pottering about the house in the background - and long stretches of silence when you’re living alone. I’ve only ever really been able to relax when I know there’s someone around.
But this two-week stretch of silence has been healing. I have been sleeping for nine or ten hours a night. I brought a radio with me here, anticipating I would find the peace and quiet too much, but I haven’t switched it on.
I am somewhere in between ‘what was’ and ‘what will be’ – a liminal space both physically and emotionally. Life as I once knew it has changed and a new reality and routine is about to begin. I’m in the silent hallway between the old and new, having left behind the noise of my old life, I’m yet to discover the sounds of the new one.
I don’t think we talk about these windows of transition enough. When we’re in between jobs, relationships, homes and other big life changes what happens is subtle but powerful: we find ways to shed the skin of one way of being and ready ourselves for another.
I thought it might feel chaotic, moving house and job all at once. But being here, in between something the past and an unknown future, feels surprisingly peaceful. It’s like a suspended reality. I’m no longer dismantling my old life and untangling myself from old patterns. And even though I know change is imminent, I’m not expelling energy putting new plans in place either.
I’d been searching for ways to articulate this quiet lull when I found an article written by Jake Pitre for the Atlantic on The Eerie Comfort of Liminal Spaces. He writes about the rising popularity of photographs of liminal spaces online. In describing physical spaces like corridors and paths - places that lead somewhere - he talks about the ‘strange solace of being on the threshold of monumental change.’
Interestingly, these photographs – a visual representation of transition – have become increasingly popular since the pandemic. Seeing physical liminal spaces helps make sense of my emotional ones. In the same way, I imagine, that it did for people navigating huge changes in their own lives during the pandemic. The photographs offer a concrete view of something that exists as an abstract concept in our minds. These are the places where you stand when you’re on your way somewhere else.
“…on an internet full of subcultures and microtrends, liminal spaces have a particular resonance with our current moment: They represent the strange solace of being on the threshold of monumental change. Strictly speaking, a liminal space is a place of transition.”
There is a Liminal Space Bot on Twitter
I’ve heard liminal spaces being talked about in yoga too. They play a significant role in what the practice teaches: ways to sit in the discomfort of transition and stay grounded, to anchor ourselves when we face the unknown.
Yoga teacher and author Nadia Narain speaks a lot about liminal spaces and the connection between them in yoga and life. She writes about her own:
“Liminal spaces include a lot of staring at the sky. Cake eating. Walking. Floating in the sea. Journalling. Feeling grateful. Feeling scared. Moments of crying for a reason. Being hugged. Being loved and looked after. Spaciousness. Deep sadness. Joy. Curiosity. Taking it slowly. An umami bomb of feelings. Slowly starting to see with new eyes.”
By definition ‘liminal’ means ‘between two thresholds.’ My own version of it is very literal as I move between addresses. But they exist in big and small ways, both physically and emotionally – a journey between destinations or space in between jobs, projects, relationships.
It’s comforting to think of these liminal spaces in our lives as passages, ways through to get somewhere else. So I can enjoy the quiet knowing that when I’m ready, the volume of my life will be louder again.