Waiheke, Aotearoa New Zealand
April 19, 2020


The first time I saw the word liminal was in the introduction to poet Mary Kibbe's book I Sink My Teeth Into Clover. I had to look it up.

Two years later, I encountered it again, inked between layers of skin on a friend's arm in Paris.

And now, here, I live it. Every day.

As I've worked my way through this week, swimming through mud and searching for clarity, this word - this concept - has been so on my mind.

Occupying a position at, or on both sides of, a boundary or threshold.

On both sides. On neither side. In between.

More than anything, this sums up how I feel these days. Fascia. Connective tissues. Fibers and filaments.

I try to reach to connect to some certainty - where did this whole thing start? Where does it end? What does it look like?

But there's none to be found. We simply hang, liminal, waiting for time to shove us forward into something more concrete.

I've wondered often what it's like for a caterpillar, cocooning. Bear, hibernating. Creosote, waiting out a decade of drought.

Maybe this is it.

With you in this week,

The best thing I saw all week was this Atlas Obscura video from all around the world - through our windows.

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