moment of the weekend:

June 9, 2013

standing in a concrete spot by an abandoned house, listening to my mother yelp in dismay at the other end of my phone: you are depression? no more study! finish after one year! The sunlight, clear and cold as liquid, green and gold in the grass, bright as the noise of the tui in the tree far down the meadow. Holes where the windows and door were, the walls battered in. Weeds everywhere. A fat pillow between large and rusted coils of barbed wire. One long, overgrown field with two, three, four tall trees. My mother in my ear, half-wail half-yelp, dismay and alarm and cajolery and the knowledge of my bloody-minded always-independence, much good as it’s ever done me. And me, stomping about with my red coat over one arm, feeling the cold and liking it, trying to reassure, nervous about the neighbours crunching down the driveway next door, wondering if they’re wondering about the stranger in the back yard of the derelict building, talking loud and tracking the seagulls overhead.

… it was a good walk, the one that took me by that building. Led me towards the lagoon until I got tired and found an Asian supermarket instead. Lagoon next time. (The young gas station attendant, looking at me oddly: if you want the lake you go down that road until you hit the roundabout, and his expression: why do you want to go see the lake?)

… and I know my mother loves me, and I know her concern for me, and I know her concerns are valid, and yes, life is an unholy mess, but it’s always been, and so we just keep going, because going backwards is to choose to die, and I’m finished with these almost-dyings.



sometimes I’m happy. sometimes I forget that I’m a mess I cannot sort out. Or perhaps that’s a simplistic way of looking at it; maybe I’m not always a mess, not until I remember I am. Maybe I’m well until I remember I’m not. But I’m remembering now, and it’s hard to do a lot of things when I believe I’m broken. I get so much more done when I think I’m well. I’m not really sure where the truth is. Am I sick or well, or am I in that strange tug-of-war between where everything seems to have put itself, nowadays? The liminal space, the threshhold, the tension, the place everything lives, between one coming and another.

I like this place. It’s the only space where all contradictions can exist, Schrödinger’s box, the plane of cognitive dissonance, where the discomfort of paradoxes keeps us awake and aware that we’re alive and that something’s wrong. This is the time of tension between dying and birth. We’re not meant to be comfortable here, dearheart. We’re not meant to be comfortable. This tension and discomfort is a signpost in both directions, pointing backwards at the undeniable brokenness and forwards to rest, and saying right here is where you are, but right here is not where you’re supposed to stay, because of course nobody wants to stay where it’s uncomfortable, and discomfort keeps you moving. And I’m pretty sure my metaphors are trying to cover more than they’re actually capable of covering, but here we are, standing in between with our arms held out, stretched out in either direction, mimicking. Mimicking what? The signpost in whom we place hope, apparently.

And I assure you, sometimes I confuse me too.


I love this space. Everything I’ve ever understood fits here. And liminal is one of my favourite words.



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