One of my favorite things about dancing is the way others hold space for you.
Perhaps not in all kinds of dancing.
But if you're lucky, you'll run into someone who sees you dancing and holds back a while, who recognizes the artistic integrity in you, the potential for more, and has the patience to wait for it to manifest itself.
This isn't about dancing. But I was trying to pinpoint why I enjoyed a recent literary artistic encounter, and ultimately, it's this. I won't lie. It flattered me, knowing I was someone worth holding space for, particularly as a writer. Perhaps more so, even, than on a purely personal plane.
But beyond that, I enjoyed the trust, the patience knowing that if you planted a seed, this in me is fertile soil. That sooner or later, something would spring.
I worried for a long while nothing would. Worried I would disappoint that trust. I keep thinking someday, I will. I thought what's there to say in such a way that hasn't been approached before? It came, as most good things, quite unbidden, and on the heels of another writing project. Dealing in similar topics, but exploring other avenues.
It made itself felt.
The liminal space refers to periods of transformation, the place in which transitions take shape. Perhaps predictably, it is often described as eerie, foreboding, dark. It's not an easy space to occupy, invites constant running away from. Which is why you need people who will hold you accountable without forcing, and invite you to walk the corridor knowing behind you, Kubrick might still be rolling.
But that you might also bloom.
I've noticed a tendency to regard writing as something I do rather than something that helps. Which isn't to say it's stopped being therapeutic. Writing, for me, continues to be a deeply potent vehicle for change. I've made a habit of writing more or less daily. Inevitably, the things that hurt tend to come up.
I see no choice but to let them. Other things brazenly invade as well. Misunderstood things, awkward things, stuff that I wish would sit where I tell it. It's taken me ten years of almost daily writing to learn to hold this liminal space for myself.
I have a hard time writing in the presence of others because in order to do so, I require vulnerability, an openness that is difficult (at best) to translate. It's a dance, in the sense that it forces in my aching bones a sense of fluidity that twelve years of yoga hasn't yet brought.
Writing keeps me emotionally agile. Eyes&heart peeled to constantly react, to engage continuously with the things that come up. Like many taboo endeavors, it's easier done in private.
I can't go if you're watching.
Unless the circumstances are arranged specifically as I'd like them. Writing when someone else is leaning against the door, listening to you is foreign, feels almost...dirty. Sharing the things every inch of our body screams to keep behind closed doors. Turn on. Adrenaline rush.
Penetrating this liminal space while holding someone else's fingers inside your own.
... do you know what I mean?
