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

Don’t Mourn the Past

Should you mourn the past?  
To lament for what might have been. 
Remembering the pathways unpursued.  
The could’ve, would’ve, and should’ve of life’s potentialities. 
Piecing together the riddles of before.  
Unsolvable they remain, puzzles unexplored.  

What do you see when you look back?  
Lost opportunities you’ll never have again.  
Despairing over what might have been.  
A step here and there on unknown paths. 
Each revealed over the span of time. 
Dreaming of possible futures.  

Didn’t anyone warn you?  
Some doors close once they’re opened.  
Others lost, never discovered again. 
A million possibilities gained, a million more lost.  
Transitional moments come aplenty.  
Reshaping and making the person you are today. 

Whom are you mourning for?  
For a person who never was.  
Someone you think you should be. 
Choices that seem more appealing now. 
Mulling over a distorted past. 
Hindsight is not always honest.  

Why are time’s tricks so deceptive?  
Growing older doesn’t always bring wisdom. 
Distortions that filter your perspective. 
Look at yourself and the paths you’ve taken. 
Rather than those unrealized paths from long ago. 
Avoid the past’s siren song. 

Have you ever considered yourself? 
The beauty your story reveals. 
And the transitions you navigated.  
Don’t glamourize what might have been.  
Appreciate the wonder of each step you’ve taken.  
Celebrate each step that brought you here to 

this…  

very… 

moment. 

For a New beginning – John O’Donahue

FOR A NEW BEGINNING

In out-of-the-way places of the heart,

Where your thoughts never think to wander,

This beginning has been quietly forming,

Waiting until you were ready to emerge.

For a long time it has watched your desire,

Feeling the emptiness growing inside you,

Noticing how you willed yourself on,

Still unable to leave what you had outgrown.

It watched you play with the seduction of safety

And the gray promises that sameness whispered,

Heard the waves of turmoil rise and relent,

Wondered would you always live like this.

Then the delight, when your courage kindled,

And out you stepped onto new ground,

Your eyes young again with energy and dream,

A path of plenitude opening before you.

Though your destination is not yet clear

You can trust the promise of this opening;

Unfurl yourself into the grace of beginning

That is at one with your life’s desire.

Awaken your spirit to adventure;

Hold nothing back, learn to find ease in risk;

Soon you will be home in a new rhythm,

For your soul senses the world that awaits you.

JOHN O’DONOHUE

From his book, To Bless the Space Between Us

Reaching out in shared Chaos

I participate in a joint program with Ukraine and the United States that trains and certifies Ukrainian mental health professionals to address the vast trauma of war and its aftermath. The certificate program includes extensive teaching, learning, training, and supervision. American and Ukrainian mental health academics and professionals act as teachers and mentors. This takes place over Zoom, with the eight hour time difference. A translator is always present translating from Ukrainian to English and back again.

With increasing Russian missile attacks on civilian targets and infrastructure, utilities are always uncertain. Power blackouts are frequent. Wifi service is often interrupted. For example, in the case of my regular translator who lives Kiev, the electricity was out in her apartment building this week. To find Wifi service for our meeting, she drove to a nearby service station to find a signal. When that didn’t work, she cruised in her car until finding a community Wifi. Her car is her office, equipped with laptop and auxiliary batteries. More than once she has Zoomed in from a parking garage outside a hospital.

I work regularly with a supervisee in the program, and yesterday the electricity was out in his office, so he had to drive to a metro station to catch Wifi to Zoom in for a meeting, then back to his office to meet with a first-time client in the darkened offices. When we Zoomed in the evening, he was back at his apartment, that did have electricity at the moment. He said that utility crews are exercising super-human effort to get everything back online after attacks. “Imagine,” he said, “we are a European country in the 21st century and we are actually uncertain if we will have electricity, heat, water.”

These counselors deal with all of the garden variety mental health challenges anyone would see anywhere, and all of the trauma that accompanies war: fear of attack, separation from family, deaths and losses, relocations, and deprivations. Like chaplains serving in the front lines of the military ministering to their troops, or mental health workers in the midst of a disaster, these persons are in the midst of crisis, chaos, suffering, and vast uncertainty. And yet they stay. They serve. With resolve.

These are liminal guides, serving in extreme liminal circumstances, among a collective of persons experiencing complex social liminality.

My role, minor as it is, involves walking along side a liminal guide who is liminal himself. In addition to whatever insight might be shared, I am striving most to stand in solidarity, walk alongside, share the common humanity, to dwell in the land of deep darkness until the light shines. Kyrie Eleison. Господи помилуй

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 LearnModelTeach.com.

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.

Combat or Humility in Multifaith Liminality? John W. Morehead

John M. Morehead is the Director of Multifaith Matters and He is the co-editor and contributing author for A Charitable Orthopathy: Christian Perspectives on Emotions in Multifaith Engagement, and Encountering New Religious Movements: A Holistic Evangelical Approach, and the editor of Beyond the Burning Times: A Pagan and Christian in Dialogue.

In this liminal month I thought I would take the occasion to write about opportunities we have for reflection on how many Christians enter the space between their congregations and the sacred spaces of others. Unfortunately, some of the more insightful lessons come by way of questionable forms of liminal multifaith encounter. I will address two of them in the Christian encounter with Latter-day Saints and Pagans.

The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, known popularly as the Mormons, is a faith where ethics, ritual, and performance are especially significant. Although Christians usually focus on their doctrine, and where they diverge from historic orthodoxy, this is not the heartbeat of their lived religion. One of the more important aspects has been pageantry. When I first arrived in Utah in 2005 a friend of mine took me to the Mormon Miracle Pageant in Manti. This annual event was held for two weeks and drew an average of 15,000 people each night. The pageant used drama, costumes, and spectacle to tell the story of the experiences of their founding prophet, Joseph Smith; the story of the Book of Mormon, one of their books of scripture; and the exodus of Mormon pioneers in their westward trek. This was a faith-promoting event, but just outside the temple grounds where the pageant was held, Christian apologists and would-be evangelists stood shouting Bible verses, holding up signs demeaning Joseph Smith, and calling Mormons to repentance from their “cult.” I was struck by the pageant, both in its artistry and what it meant to Mormons, as well as by the confrontational methods of the Christians. Many times, the feelings stirred up by the evangelists would lead to shouting and threats of violence, sometimes requiring police intervention.

Although the LDS Church no longer puts on such pageants, other religious groups pursue their own sacred expressions in public space. One such example is WitchsFest USA held in New York’s West Village during the summer. Pagans don’t meet in buildings and formal houses of worship, and instead gather outdoors in order to pursue their spirituality and build community. The Pagans weren’t alone. Some thirty “street preachers” were there, holding up signs and preaching “sermons” with heated rhetoric through bullhorns. This clash was picked up in an article in Religion New Service where the festival’s organizer, RavenHawk, is quoted as saying that the preachers “aren’t just protesting. They are collectively at war with us.”    

These examples aren’t the only ways Christians are entering liminal spaces and engaging religious others, but they are far too common. And in the American context of post-Trumpian, Christian nationalist polarization such militant engagement may happen even more frequently than in the past.

In this season of liminality, as we reflect on what it means to enter the liminal space with others, we have to ask whether the Christlike way of cruciform humility is best embodied through combative boundary maintenance and heresy hunting under the guise of gospel proclamation, or whether we and the other would be better served in liminality as a way of encounter, learning, and mutual transformation.

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.

Peace.

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.

Peace.

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 TheLiminalityProject.org 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)