The table between goodbye and hello – Nicole Conner

Nicole Conner is a narrative therapist working in Fitzroy North and Berwick, Australia.

Hospitality is a universal practice – an attitude, an act of life that speaks of welcome and belonging. It is a global language spoken across cultures, religions, and timelines. It is a way of finding meaning in human connection, a way of being with one another. In its nature, it is a constant amongst impermanence and transition. Hospitality is transformational – turning strangers into friends, fear into understanding, exile into belonging, and, potentially, hostility into peace. It is an island of reprieve amidst the rapids and sharp rocks of life. We can easily place hospitality into the ‘cake & tea’ basket – sentimental, syrupy, and impotent. However, I would argue that hospitality in its truest sense is radical, scandalous even! And it can be a source of comfort and healing for those who find themselves exhausted, lost, and disillusioned between the threshold of ‘goodbye’ and the not yet realised ‘hello’.

My parents and I arrived as fresh immigrants to South Africa in the early 1970s. We had migrated from northern Germany. It is hard to begin to describe the overwhelming feeling of ‘lostness’. South Africa was so very different from the place and people we had left behind. The heartache of goodbye felt like a heavy burden, and with every new person we met, and every new experience, it felt a little bit heavier – reminding us we were far from ‘home’. Perhaps, the biggest thing that reminded us of our ‘outsider’ status was the language barrier. No one in my family spoke English or Afrikaans or Zulu – so every form of communication in our new world took an enormous effort, filled with trepidation and a sense of shame.

A young Ludwig Wittgenstein once wrote that the ‘limits of my language mean the limits of my world’ (Tractatus, 1921). This thought, of course, became a key part of the philosophical movement of the early 20th century known as the ‘linguistic turn’. I don’t want to get caught up in the arguments that surround his assumptions or whether our lives can be limited to what we can verbally explain. However, as a young girl I did discover that my language, my mother tongue, was foreign to the country we had migrated to. Yet my language defined my world and brought sense and meaning to my life and existence. That language, and therefore my meaning and world, did not translate and was not understood in this new, strange country. We were locked out because we could not understand the way this new world functioned. Our ‘mother’ was another country, culture, and tongue. We had said ‘goodbye’ to her and our ‘hello’ to Africa was lost in translation.

Our neighbours next door were Afrikaans-speaking South Africans, and across the road lived English-speaking South Africans. What they had in common was their love to share a meal with others. So our ‘lost’ little family found itself around their dining room tables, eating, drinking, and communicating with hands and feet … and laughing. Slowly we began to learn the languages that were ‘mother’ to our new home. We were able to share experiences and even decipher the many nuances of humour. Our neighbours had set a table for us and bid us welcome. Their table was like an anchor in the restless, and often stormy, oceans of change and transition. Amidst all the other experiences, it was their kindness and hospitality that provided the first whisper of hello. It was their table that turned strangers into friends. It was their table that spoke a language we understood.

Henri Nouwen writes, ‘Hospitality means primarily the creation of free space where the stranger can enter and become a friend instead of an enemy. Hospitality is not to change people, but to offer them space where change can take place. It is not to bring men and women over to our side, but to offer freedom not disturbed by dividing lines’ (Reaching Out: The Three Movements of the Spiritual Life, 1986). Gracious, radical hospitality is a reprieve from the often arduous liminal path. To be welcomed and invited to enter and be, not come and change, brings with it a notion of sanctuary and safety. It reminds me of the story of Jesus and Zacchaeus. Jesus invited himself to the table of an ‘outsider’. A table that was despised by the religious powers of the day. A table that had room for the messiness of what it means to be human – a coming together, laughing, drinking, being … and in the mystery of those moments Zacchaeus said goodbye to some actions and paradigms. It was in this table moment that he recognised things about his life that were no longer valuable or meaningful to him. This awareness also allowed Zacchaeus to say hello to a new way of being, and a new way of treating those around him. It seems to me that the table is not only a strategic shelter between goodbye and hello, perhaps it is the very instrument of the transformation, the great interpreter of all languages, or the language itself.

I am forever grateful for the many tables of radical hospitality I have sat at over my life. They have changed me, challenged me, and reminded me that even in confusing, transitional times in my life I am still connected because someone has made room for me around their table. So I look at my ginormous dining room table and the many folks that have sat around it over the years, laughing, crying, telling stories, and recognise what a privilege it is to have a table in the threshold, where we find the other, and differences are no longer obstacles.

Hospitality should have no other nature than love.” Henrietta Mears

Liminal Essay Contest for University Students

The Liminal Scholarship of $500 will be awarded to the winner of a 700-1000 word essay on some aspect of liminality found in the short story “The Stretch Motel” in S.K Kruse’s Tales from the Liminal. Students must be enrolled in an undergraduate program in an accredited university for the 2023-24 academic year.

The submission deadline is January 31, 2023. The award date is May 31, 2023.

For full details, a link to the short story, and the online registration form, click here.

Resilience in Liminal Space – Laura Gaines

Laura Gaines is a clinical social worker specializing in resilience, trauma informed care and mental wellness. She provides training, coaching and consultation for helping professionals. She writes a weekly blog about resilience at

Resilience in Liminal Space by Laura Gaines

I am going to make this work.

I will focus on the positive.

If I just try harder.

As misery, and exhaustion seep into my bones I don’t remember when it got to be so bad. So much energy spent maintaining the fragile peace. Don’t disrupt; be cooperative; pay attention. As long as I am agreeable, we live happily in this bubble. Life is perfect… Isn’t it?

There is no way out.

I can’t do this.

I want this to work out.

Don’t I?

The first step was miniscule, pointless really. I decide to grow my hair long. We don’t have long hair. We like our hair short, so we see Tessa every 6 weeks.” I am tired of short hair; I want to grow it out. “Your hair looks best short, you know that.” Sigh. But then I tell Tessa what I want. She responds, “okay,” as if it is no big deal! “I will cut your hair every other visit and even then, I will only shape it up as it grows out.” With a look aimed at me, “She looks best in short hair.” Tessa replies, “perhaps but she wants it long; she is ready for a change.”

I am ready for a change.

I try to repair this life we have.

This perfect bubble is not perfect.

I am so tired.

I extend an invitation to change with me. We can adjust. But we can’t. The bounds of the relationship stretch and then snap back, painfully, like a rubber band. I can no longer keep the peace. I imagine a different future. I break silence and tell people. They do not say I am selfish, wrong, ridiculous. They act like it is normal to desire more.

Again, I invite change.

“Yes, yes, I will allow you to grow your hair long”.

That is not the change I am looking for; I am alone on this journey.

There is no clear way forward.

I daydream about possibilities. I take small steps. People act like it is normal for me to show up at book club. The bubble shudders, struggling to contain two futures. No one knows the battle raging. Cracks appear and are mended. There is too little room. I pay attention, I try to create calm. And yet I keep stretching the bounds.

I am selfish.

I am myself.

I quit apologizing.

The bubble has stretched beyond all limits. It strains, shreds, and I am asked to save it please, please! I can’t. I don’t want to. I accept that this is over. All the compressed rules and expectations explode. Fury, fire, destruction. As the embers settle, I wake alone in a new room. Knowing the stages of trauma doesn’t stop them from happening.

All change is possible.

I will focus on the positive.

I am going to make this work.

The Bones of Liminality – Lisa Withrow

Lisa Withrow

Lisa Withrow is a Gestalt and Positive Intelligence coach, leadership consultant, and researcher-writer in the area of liminality and conflict. She has published 5 books and contributed to 6 others.

Waiting. In-between space can be chaotic, serene, frenzied, calm, anxiety-producing, hope-filled, or perhaps all of the above. Underlying each of these characteristics is the foundational waiting, no matter how active the transitional times. What will be on the other side of this threshold? Who will I be when we get there? How long does this transition TAKE?

Liminal space is especially difficult during the decline of a loved one’s health. At this writing, my father is lying in a bed in a hospice house, angry to be dying too soon after 81 years of health and vitality and until very recently, being mistaken for a 60-year-old. Now at 82, he looks 150, a skeleton with skin stretched over his bones except for swollen belly and feet. Nothing wrong with his brain.

The nurse called today. Time to gather loved ones, it won’t be long now. Waiting for four months since the prognosis is about to end. Dad is still angry, but sleeping more as his limbs turn blue and his breath shallows.

Meanwhile, his liminality is mine. Tears dripping down my face, I rush to make sure financial and property affairs are in order, family members are informed, and house is cared for, all at a distance, pseudo-calmly reassuring Dad that he has nothing to worry about. Chaotic, frenzied, anxiety-producing behavior as I walk alongside Dad in the dying process keeps me less prone to lying in bed miserably myself.

And yet there are tiny moments of calm, and certainly anticipation of slowing down when the threshold time is over. What will be on the other side of this threshold?  Who will I be when we get there? I have some inklings about the emerging future feeling a bit empty and busy and final, with an accompanying sense that I did all that I could to make this liminal passage as smooth as possible for my cheated-out-of-years father.

Waiting through the dying days—the ultimate liminal space. Such a space provides deep perspective about what matters and what can be set aside. Movement through it gets right down into the bones and skin, into the belly and feet. With no reliable muscle to push through, the pace is dictated by the frame and spirit. Basic. No frills. Life and death dance with each other, one leading, then changing places with the other. Light in the eyes sparkles, dulls, sparkles, dulls. The inner spirit prepares for flight, practicing good-bye and hello, moving in the dance until the dance is over, in this space anyway. I don’t know what the other side of his threshold looks like – but his will be different, as will mine. Who will I be?  A woman with a mother and a brother, deep friendships, and another new acquaintance: Absence.

Waiting for Absence. It’s not the first time and it won’t be the last. I have a few friends named Absence. There will be more gathering in my lifetime.  Each one has her or his own character, and each one has acquired a familiar feel now. Welcome to my own dance: Absence and Presence. Some call it Circle of Life, I call it Liminal Dance. We’re in the dance together and alone, with its harsh beauty and its potent ugliness. We live the paradox.

Grateful for our Dance. Serenity. Calm. Hope.


Addendum: Absence is now Present. My father suffers no more, but those in the aftermath do. The dance continues, with mystical presence instead of body. One day at a time.

Grateful for our Dance. Serenity. Calm. Hope.


Almost but not Quite – Nita Gilger

Nita Gilger

Nita Gilger is the minister for congregational care at University Christian Church, Ft. Worth, Texas, and a frequent contributor to Open Horizons Magazine for Process Theology.

It was not finished but it floated. It was almost ready but not quite. I had offered to help sand and put on the last coat of epoxy on this treasured wood strip canoe that my husband was building in our garage. It was a nice day. The wind had died down a bit and was a good time to put the final touches on.  My boat buddy was so very close to finishing this masterpiece.  I mean really! A couple of coats, the outside gunnels, seats, and a few other things like brass guards on the bow and stern etc. and it would be complete. But to my great surprise, in came my master boat builder to announce he was taking the canoe down to the boat ramp in our neighborhood to test it out in the lake. Seriously? It was SOOO close to being done, completely protected, and ready for launch.  What of all the talk of a launch party and the building excitement of seeing that first moment when this work of art touched the water for the very first time? Why change the plan now?

When I was asked for my help to lift the canoe to the top of our ATV so it could be tied down for the move to the water, I was resistant.  I wanted to argue and advise but I knew that would not be a welcomed or accepted approach from me. So, I gutted it up and sealed my lips and helped secure the canoe to take to the lakeshore. Initially, I decided not to go to the water. I just knew this was a bad idea and I did not want to witness the impending possible difficulties.  I stayed home for a while but eventually decided I should go check.  When I got to the water’s edge, this is what I saw.  I witnessed my husband gently rowing the canoe around the slough and beaming happily at his great success.  It turns out he was testing to check the balance and maneuverability before installing the seats and other components.  There was a method to this madness and a scientific quest to make proper adjustments and decisions.  No harm was done to the canoe or the canoer.  Both were sea worthy and all was well. My angst was completely unnecessary and wasted effort.  There was merit and purpose in the testing time of the canoe’s in-between state. In short, I learned that I need to be more careful of assigning judgment to things I don’t understand.

Now, the canoe is back in the garage awaiting the final finishing touches.  We are almost there, but not quite.  The word quite has to do with degree.  It can mean to the greatest extent; a little; moderately but not very; or it can mean very, totally or completely.  For instance, I could say my husband was quite right to make this decision. Or I could say, it seemed to me the canoe was not quite ready.  English words are so confusing, aren’t they? 

Life is full of ‘not quite moments’– those ‘almost there’ kind of moments.  Such was the case for the canoe builder who was quite right to test out the canoe.  I thought it was too soon; too risky; and unwise but it turns out I was wrong and too hesitant. The master craftsman’s boldness and scientific, artisan’s mind was far more attuned to what was needed than my cautious mind.  I had “the plan” in my mind and now it was all topsy turvy which gave me great pause.

What we choose to do with the ‘almost but not quite moments’ can be somewhat critical in our decision-making and living.  If I push too soon and become impatient, I can make costly mistakes.  If I almost decide but hold back too long, I can miss the mark and certain opportunities.  I hope that I can have the wisdom to do just the right thing but sometimes those best, seemingly right decisions are elusive.  In such times, it behooves me to pray for wisdom, wait, suspend my judgments, and be open to what is possible. In those uncertain, ‘not quite’ times, I would do best to live in expectancy with fewer expectations.  Life can be most instructive during those times.  Much time and hard work has been given to this beautiful wood strip canoe. It is work of art to behold.  In the process of it all, I have seen perseverance, talent, frustration, and waiting periods that tried patience and delayed completion.  But it is worth all the effort. It is creativity and possibility in motion.  It is life.

Veils, Loops and Paradox: The Nature of the Liminal Domain

(This post was first published at on June 17, 2020)

While some attempt has been made to describe the experience of liminality, we are often left with a list of what it is not: it is not familiar structure, it is not rational, it is not linear. The ambiguity and confusion we experience in this phase of the passage is often described by contrast, according to what it is not. That is understandable. It is much easier to describe the concrete than the abstract. And yet, a description of the liminal is very often what people desire most.

Before attempting to describe the subjective experience of liminal time and space, I want to have some conversations with a few physicists, mathematicians and philosophers.  If we are going to be talking about the disruption of our familiar order of life, the crossing of a threshold out of structure into antistructure, whether prescribed or imposed upon us, we need to explore the ground we supposedly stand upon.

When the late physicist Bernard d’Espagnat described reality, he spoke in terms of its veiling; ordinary observable reality – let’s call it the realm of Newtonian cause and effect – acts as a surface or veil for what is hidden beneath it.[1] If a theologian were saying the same thing the language might be “things visible and invisible,” a sacramental way of describing reality. Regardless, the reality we perceive is the surface of the pond, not the pond in all its depths.

We suppose this surface to be reliable and solid, something dependable and predictable. And to be sure, it often is. That’s how we can calculate that we are about out of milk, need to make a trip to the store, know a pathway there, remember transactions that will obtain the milk, and return home to drink it. Usually that is the case, but not always.

To make life easier our brains and social structures have created maps of predictability to keep this cause and effect surface easy to navigate. When people deviate from the pattern they are corrected. Mechanisms in our worldview keep the ball bouncing. Until it doesn’t anymore. Then, if we were a quantum physicist and not a Newtonian, we might say that it was only time until the house of cards fell, that we could only maintain this illusion for so long.

That, by the way, is exactly what most of the world religions have said for millennia, that what seems to be real is indeed illusion, that nothing is permanent save what buoys it up from beneath, that there is a difference between the essence of things and the form it takes in history. Or, returning to the physicists, that there is energy on one side of the equation and everything else on the other side.

So, there is only so much that can be known on a plane that is so unpredictable. For example, as every freshman physics major knows from Heisenberg and his Uncertainty Principle, one cannot know the velocity of a particle and its location as the same time. To know one is to not know the other.

All said differently, a mathematician-philosopher like Ludwig Wittgenstein would say that there is a difference between a mathematical proposition and reality as it actually is.[2] Propositions only resemble reality to a greater or lesser degree, and in every case, theory is not entirely equivalent to reality. The finitude of the human mind cannot exhaust the complexity and unpredictability of reality.

Though much is known, much more is unknown. And what is known is often the reflection of a surface which conceals more.

Douglas Hofstadter says nearly the same thing about those things which live beneath the surface, but with an intriguing analysis.[3] He says that the mind itself contains an amazing self-referential feedback loop – one that is paralleled by phenomena in the natural world and quantum realm. In his study of the mathematician Gödel, he found something reminiscent of Wittgenstein, namely, an Incompleteness Theorem in which all axioms include undecidable propositions. Neither a system nor absolute boundaries exist, except those which are humanly constructed in order to operate. Like the art of M.C. Escher with its paradoxical patterns, finitude and infinity are allowed to coexist, the known and unknown overlapping in intersecting planes. The loop is created by means of a pattern that has a beginning and an ending, yet no beginning and ending. It is at once finite and infinite.

All of this is to say that what we take for what seems to be obvious structure is but the appearance of the surface. When unveiled the undercroft contains deep patterns which unfold, replicate, and determine the shape of the visible by action of the invisible. What is revealed is an intertwining reality that holds the rational and irrational, finite and infinite, seen and unseen, structural and novel, conscious and unconscious.

Taken together, these insights shape our view of the Rites of Passage, and in particular our perception of the difference between structure and antistructure, the pre-liminal and the liminal.

Because the liminal domain is characterized by the lack of structural foundations we once experienced on the surface, our movement through that space does not follow a linear pathway. The passage is often irrational and populated by strange coordinates, exhibiting paradox, shifting identity, and the fluidity and looping of time itself. The conscious gives way to the unconscious.

By way of encounter with this strange reality beneath the surface a new reality is created. It is not the same as the previous reality, though it may share some of the same previous form. The post-liminal state is shaped by the shattering of illusion, through everything that has been discovered in the liminal dark interval. And so, societies and individuals may be transformed. The spiritual depths inform the material world. Through many veils, loops and paradoxes we have already come. And old worlds die even as new ones are born.

[1] D’Espagnat, Bernard. Veiled Reality: An Analysis of Present- Day Quantum Mechanical Concepts

(CRC Press, 2019)

[2] Wittgenstein, Ludwig. Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus.

[3] Hofstadter, Douglas. I am a Strange Loop (Basic Books, 2008)

Masked and Unmasked

If there is one thing that has become emblematic of this season of pandemic, it is the mask. We are masked, we mask ourselves, we sell and buy masks, we scramble for masks, we resent having to wear masks. Public spaces contain masked people scattering to and fro. We notice who is and who isn’t masked and have feelings about them. In the realm of online commerce, producers of masks compete for the position of most trendy, least expensive, or most effective.

We are masked.

And yet ironically, at the same time, in the liminal space beyond the threshold of what might have been normal, much is being unmasked.

What is mostly being unmasked are the stories we tell ourselves. Back in the old world these stories propped up the way things were, kept us striving after the next shiny thing, and even defined who should stay where and how. Some stories made more than a few of us hyper religious. Other stories provided ways we should be patriotic. But mostly the stories we were told and continue to tell ourselves defined a world. This is how we see and understand things. At least in the old world we did.

Surprisingly, this same time and space that has required we wear masks is now methodically exposing and unmasking us in other ways. These painful revelations of the in-between include the ways that aspects of our true selves have been covered by false stories. And the ways our false stories have created pain and suffering for those around us.

Of the many Biblical water stories, two are conspicuous in the way they unmask us.

The first is the flood story which, if read with its full narrative power, won’t leave one of us back in the old broken down life before the waters lifted the ark off the ground. The past and its ways are washed away and an interim community of hope floats toward the future. Somewhere on the other side chaos a new world rises up like a dove flying over Atlantis. If we don’t see rainbows we should.

But then there is the water that provided the supposed escape route for Jonah. This is no moral example tale, this prophet running from destiny. But his story does cast a light on our own cowardice, our unwillingness to move forward when it is hard, our reluctance to let go of fear and hate and become more of what we are meant to be. Jonah is washed away by another flood – a storm – though his transportation is by submarine. His ark is a big fish, and it serves as his temple, womb, transforming container, and way out all in one. When he is spewed out on land at the very place he first departed, the circle is connected: Jonah is conspicuously unmasked, shown for who he is, even as he is given a second, quite imperfect run at it.

In both stories the truth about the world and our human nature is unmasked in unavoidable ways. Deep calls to deep. It echoes off the betwixt and between canyon walls of our existence. All that is hidden is revealed.

All that is to say that this liminal interlude represents more than a regrouping, timeout, or waiting room to get back to normal. It is more than that. In the fullness of time we swim in a tsunami of history. The flood has washed away the old world, and no matter how reluctant we are, the only way forward is forward. Even if we attempt to batten down the hatches on the old world, a big fish is sending us where the work really needs to begin.

This is the gift from the time of masks, to be unmasked so.

And yet, there is another sort of mask, a future, transcendent mask, that arrives for an altogether different reason. We are told that after Moses descended from the holy mountain his face was so luminous that he had to wear a veil to spare the eyes of all those who beheld him. Such is the mystery of the new world on the other side of the flood, a hoped for, future world of the most sacred imagination, a mount of transfiguration where the face of the holy shines like the sun and a bright cloud of presence consumes the need for every mask that ever was or ever will be.

Liminality in a time of Pandemic

(This blog post from Timothy Carson previously ran on

As I opened up a small tutorial class in the Honors College of the University of Missouri this week, I checked in with students, asking them how they were doing. It was more than rhetorical; I really wanted to know, considering the big changes unfolding around us. Following a short silence one of the students simply said, “Every day just gets stranger and stranger.” That pretty well summed it up. He didn’t have to delve into the various layers of emotion. The rest of us could fill in the blanks.

It could be said that most everyone affected by the current rising pandemic is sensing something similar, that things are getting stranger and stranger. Oh, yes, the emotional underlay might be fear, or anger, or a sense of helplessness, but the overwhelming sensation is one of strangeness. I don’t think that is so unusual. In fact, when whole societies cross certain thresholds that separate them from what was their familiar way of life and plunges them into a whole new way of things, we say that they have plunged into a state of social liminality, betwixt and between, an ambiguous, undifferentiated state in which familiar and even taken for granted landmarks are absent.

In a larger sense, the Corona virus pandemic belongs to a family of related pandemics throughout history, pandemics that all brought about severe social disruption. And pandemics belong to the even larger category of disasters – fire, war, earthquake, flood, hurricane, tsunami, drought, exile and migration, explosions, and revolutions. All of these chaos events cast whole groups of people into a new state of things. They often necessitate great efforts at survival. Organizational structures are shaken and reorganized. Some things later return to their former state of being before the disaster and some do not.

In Rebecca Solnit’s in-depth study of disasters entitled A Paradise Built in Hell she identified dozens of social disasters of various kinds and analyzed their impacts, aftermath and communal responses. Her conclusions are very interesting as they stand in some sharp contrast to prevailing assumptions about what disasters yield. In fact, many of the researchers who specialize in disasters in the aggregate or in particular disasters cite the same difference between popular assumptions and reality.

One of the assumptions about large chaos events is that the society will devolve into anarchy, rioting, and violence. Though that occurs in some measure, the opposite is most usually the case. What normally occurs is a gathering of the tribe for mutual survival. Class distinctions are often set aside. Individuals and sub-groups self-organize for the public good – like providing shelter, food, water and medical attention. In liminal studies we say that such groups facing similar challenges experience Victor Turner’s now famous coined term, communitas – a special community of the in-between.

In many cases governmental structures can be helpful – if they are already effective and serving the interest of the people. When they are not they often only protect their self-interest, even worsening the aftermath of disasters by enforcing unnecessary marital law, applying violence where it is unnecessary and impeding recovery rather than facilitating it. That was conspicuously in play in the immediate aftermath of Katrina.

One of the key findings of disaster studies is the relationship between disasters and revolutions. In almost every case that governmental structures were either the cause of enormous human suffering or were incompetent, the disaster shook loose the hold of that government on its own power. Revealed for what they were or were not, governments fell from the raw power of disasters, losing their mandate and position as a result. The people not only welcomed the fall but worked to make it so. A sweeping disaster can either start or complete a process of social transformation, thrusting the society into liminal chaos until it reconstitutes itself. This can take place quickly or stretch into a rather indefinite process.

In our world-wide pandemic many things will transpire as a result of a great disruption. The familiar and supposedly safe structures of life will give way to uncertainty. The time of chaos will reveal true resiliency among groups of people who will not only protect themselves, but come together in common cause. Ineffectual and self-serving government and its officials will be revealed for what they are and give way to forms more responsive to the people. Local and regional efforts will rise to the top as models of what the tribe may do on the front lines of challenge. And in the best case scenario we will discover what is needed to address the new normal, a way of necessity that is discovered in the midst of liminal time and space, positioning us individually and socially to move forward differently.

We shall be changed. Into what is yet to be determined. But the artists of the human spirit will be crafting new vehicles to take us there as they navigate that liminal dark energy that defies our every attempt to control it.