Recently I’ve suffered the discomfort of uncertainty and the pain of waiting, not unlike Braxton Hicks in late August. Sleep eludes me at night or overtakes me in the afternoon as I fear bad news and await good news. I watch the trees for buds and worry over frosty leaves, trying to control the seasons with the mere force of my mind. Try as I might, I can’t seem to appreciate the thresholds, the so-called freedom of indecision, the liminal space, except the one between waking and sleeping.
I soothe the pain of completing a book by starting to write its sequel. Then, suddenly, I find myself in a gully-washer of creativity after a long desert spell.
trapped in a drafty doorway
good news in gridlock
While researching liminality, I found this great album, “Liminal Sleep” by Sigur Rós, and I learned a new word, transpicuous.
P.S. Discomfort’s new nickname is not “uncomfortability.” That’s not a word, folks. Don’t try to make it one.