By Jeanette LeBlanc
This is a love letter. A love letter to women in transition.
This, then, is also a love letter for all women. For at one time or another we will all find ourselves moving between spaces and lives and iterations of ourselves. Indeed, perhaps we always are.
This is not easy. I know that. When I look down the length of my own body I can still see the indentations of gravel on kneecaps from the time I spent on the hard ground, howling at the moon.
We all go to the earth sometimes, down to the depths of ourselves and sit with the center of our pain. It aches to be, to dance, to live and breathe and eat and sleep in this space that is neither here nor there. Somewhere in the namelessness. Somewhere in the wild nothingness of the ether. Somewhere in between.
There will come a time – there will come many times – when we must stagger the liminal spaces between this life and that. When the night sky has deepened to the colour of an unhealed bruise and only the haunted remain awake. When that ceaseless moan ramps up its siren song in the melancholy hush of 3am. When the cacophony of voices deafens and hands grasp from all sides pulling, grabbing, pleading us to stay. Or to go.
The liminal space is best friends with desperate bargains. With grasping and pleading. With prayers from those usually far too busy to kneel. With the disordered embrace of childhood religion. With the distancing from faith that sustains. With the desperate push-pull. With the exquisite intermingling of loss and longing.
It is a space of disequilibrium. Of quaking knees and unsteady breath. Of a yearning for balance that is nowhere to be found.
Balance, she is a tricky bitch. The tightrope is stretched taut, high above an anxious audience. The space fills with an expectant hush so loud it transforms your being into an echo. Half of the souls below are hoping you’ll make it, the other half wait for you to fall. You will freeze in the middle, guaranteed. You’ll be convinced you have to stay, await a clear answer that delivers you the certainty of the exact right choice. The one that will make everyone happy. The one that delivers truth without regret. The one that will take you to the other side without collateral damage.
And I wish I could say that that answer will come. That you will do what you need to do and cross to the other side and everything will be the same. And maybe it will.
But darling, transition is no time for the hopeless task of satisfying everyone. You’ll drive yourself mad trying. We all do. But now it is time for doing exactly what scares you the most.
You think you need a tightrope act, but you really need trapeze release. You have to let go before you’re holding on to anything solid. Have to feel that brief, terrifying moment of free fall and trust that you will be caught if you need be caught. Fall if you need to fall. Land where you need to land.
Feel the air rushing past your body. Trust. And trust. And trust. Speak your bone truth. Discover the root of your endless compassion. Un-learn lessons that have kept your heart on lockdown. Embrace what you need. Discard what does not serve. Bless your tender kneecaps. Bless your holy longing. Bless your wild soul.
And know you won’t be alone at the end. We will all be with you. Everyone who has leaped. Everyone who has landed. Everyone who has found their way through the liminal spaces, and everyone who still lives there. You’ll be full with your own fierce reality. Unapologetically, divinely you. And the ceaseless moan and the echoing gasp and the desperate prayers will fade. And you will be filled with the song of yourself.
It’s time to turn up the volume and dance, love. Damn, you make beautiful music.
Featured image: peacelovefree.com
For more self-study, The Urban Howl recommends Women Who Run with the Wolves: Myths and Stories of the Wild Woman Archetype.