Existing

in the in between

Existing in liminal space:
A practice of persistence
full of contrast's beauty.

The diving raft, last October. This year, right now I can see it from the kitchen window in the shallows, waiting to be retrieved after a wind storm snapped its tether rope to the cinder block that keeps it in one spot.

We had the first hard freeze of the season last night—temperatures dropped to 30 degrees, taking with them the last of the pepper plants, the late flowering zinnias, the tiny still-green pumpkins, and the lingering basil. The kale and brussels sprouts will live on for weeks yet, but most of the garden vegetables and flowers have reached the end of their growth for the year.

However, if the forecast holds true, overnight lows will be back in the 50s by the weekend. Cold isn’t quite ready to descend in full upon the land, and most of the trees still have green leaves, even through some years by this time in October the backyard is ablaze in yellow and orange.

It feels like one of those between times —liminal space— that rises up as the earth transitions through cycles. We’re hovering in the space between seasons.

Leaving room
for possibility 
means learning 
to be okay 
existing in liminality 
and leaning deeply 
into the mystery 
of what could be next.

So far October this year has been....muted. The vibrancy of autumn has not yet shown itself in full (perhaps thanks to above average temps and very little late summer rain), but now crispy-but-still-green leaves swirl to the ground when the winds blow swiftly enough. The garden, thanks to last night’s hard freeze, has lost most of its bright colors, and nearly all of the lingering plants droop now along with the spent sunflowers. I find myself missing the bright colors of the garden while hoping for an increase of brilliant autumn foliage, all the while looking forward to the first true snow, the one that gives the landscape the capability to sparkle in new ways. The one that means maybe we'll get a real winter this year.

What helps me, when I’m in this between space,¹ is going outside despite what I perceive to be lacking or when things feel stuck, to intentionally seek out the good and the beautiful that exists anyway.

This morning when I stepped outside there was a whole new muted palate of colors, every earth shade imaginable, waving at me from the hayfield that went to seed. I saw sparking drips of just melted frost hanging from the few bare branches. I saw crispy but still green leaves dancing in the breeze as the sun filtered through them. I saw fog rising from the lake, turning a surface of decaying lily pads into a steaming cauldron of mystery. I saw the bright red pop of the hot peppers I missed picking last night and the persistent green of kale in the garden. I saw the tiny (but mighty) dahlia, tucked way back into the asters right next to the wilted basil, surprising me with its still-bright blossoms. I saw the earth reminding me that the between spaces are where we live, and they continually provide opportunities to see beauty presenting itself in new or unanticipated ways if we are willing to look for it.

The tiny but mighty dahlia.

So often it’s the simplest questions that illuminate the path through liminality — and it’s not always the path we think of when we consider what’s next. Today, I invite you to allow for a new possibility, one that perhaps you’ve not yet considered.

What beauty is possible to see when you look closer?

1. (and when you think about it...it can feel like we’re always in some sort of “in between” space, right? There’s always something to miss and there’s always something else to wish for...)