“And once the storm is over, you won’t remember how you made it through, how you managed to survive. You won’t even be sure whether the storm is really over. But one thing is certain. When you come out of the storm, you won’t be the same person who walked in. That’s what this storm’s all about. —Haruki Murakami, Kafka on the Shore

Yesterday it was announced that 50% of American adults are fully vaccinated. There is a bit more bustle on the streets, and here in California anyway, we are enjoying the privilege of entry into the new normal.

We don’t know when the pandemic will end (nor what “end” even means!) but it seems that we are closer to that end than to the beginning. We seem to be thinking and talking more about the transition into near-term post-pandemic society. And even though that transition can’t be fully planned, it can be observed, experienced, contemplated.

A useful concept here is that of “liminality”: a place betwixt and between, a threshold. The old has dissolved but the new has not yet come into full view.

The liminal space reminds me of the blank page between chapters in a book. One chapter is over, and there is a pause, an empty sheet pregnant with possibility, before that leaf turns over and the next chapter begins.

For over a year, I have felt the sublime, terrifying power of the liminal. Life as we have known it is over, yet we don’t exactly know which parts are over. New ways of doing and being are emerging, but we don’t know which ones are transitional and which ones are more permanent. We have in some way disintegrated, and we don’t yet know how we will reconfigure our lives, individually or collectively.

When I’m reading a book and I get to that white page between chapters, I have the option of pushing on, or placing my bookmark and stopping for a bit. Usually this is a more or less thoughtless decision, based on my time or energy or competing interests in the moment.

But I’m wondering how I might more mindfully stop at this figurative white page and lean into it, appreciate it, even savor it. So often I’m impatient, restless. There are days when I desperately want to turn the page and get on with the new chapter, to find out what happens next.

But not one of us can make the page turn faster to a defined, post-pandemic reality. It seems then that one of our tasks is to reckon with the ambiguity inherent to liminal space, to respect it, to be with it. To cultivate patience.

For me, this requires being with feelings of excitement, fear, grief, and hope. I need quiet, but I also need connection. Dreams (both waking and nocturnal) seem particularly important at this time. Knowing where I can seek refuge–and offer it to others–is key.

Liminal space is by definition “neither here nor there.” I wonder how I can help myself through this period, and how we might help each other?