Liminal is all about the concepts of transition and shifting ambiguities, categorised by disorientation and a loss of belonging. You might be in a liminal space right now.
- Do you feel a sense of belonging?
- Are you uncomfortable? Anxious? Feel a sense of dread?
- Did you choose to be here?
The days between Christmas and New Years are liminal spaces, much like airport layovers. They aren’t real. Nothing matters. Get high at 10am. Watch all 3 Lord of the Ringses. You are your own godKate Leth (@kateleth) December 28, 2019
Liminality is all about between-ness. If you find yourself anxiously on the threshold of something, you may be in a liminal space.
A liminal space is the time between the ‘what was’ and the ‘next.’ It is a place of transition, waiting, and not knowing. Liminal space is where all transformation takes place, if we learn to wait and let it form us.Liminal Space
betwixt or between…in a period of transition between states … [where individuals] are neither one thing nor another; or may be both; or neither here nor there; or may even be nowhereVictor Turner, anthropologist
If you’re on one side of a boundary, you could be in a liminal space. You might even be straddling it. Not just boundaries, either: borders, frontiers, no-man’s-land, the out-of-bounds area of the school playground.
Perhaps it’s dawn or dusk — on the border between night and day.
You’re crossing a river by bridge or by boat.
You’re in some kind of transition. You’re between schools, between jobs, between friendships. You’re engaged to be married but haven’t set a date. You have a new partner but haven’t changed your socials status. Doubly liminal if you’re both sitting where land meets sea, contemplating ‘he loves me, he loves me not’ with a flower.
You’re waiting for what’s to come.
You’re where land meets water. Dark water. You don’t know what’s down there. You almost feel you’re a part of it.
You live on a docked house boat.
You’re climbing a fence. Or thinking about climbing a fence — in the preliminal phase of climbing a fence. You don’t know what’s in that thicket of trees on the other side.
You’re on the edge of a village, trees are getting thicker. You’re about to enter the forest… or your dark subconscious.
You live in outer suburbia, betwixt urban and rural worlds. Shaun Tan made a picture book compilation about that particular liminal space. “‘It opened into another room altogether… an impossible room somewhere between the others.”
You live between cultures — one subculture at home, another at school.
You’re no longer a kid but haven’t yet launched as an adult. You have your learner’s permit but can’t yet drive on your own. You’ve outgrown the little chairs but you sit at the kids’ table over Christmas dinner.
You are passing through a place ‘of transit, not of residence’ (theorist James Clifford).
You’re moving to a new house — a popular way to open a children’s book. Perhaps you live in a caravan park, and have this deep-seated feeling you’re living situation is something between permanent and temporary. You might be in a “hotel, a station, airport terminal, hospital and so on: somewhere you pass through, where the encounters are fleeting, arbitrary’ (Clifford).
You’re more likely to be in a liminal space if you’re in a children’s book and that children’s book is set in the city. In children’s stories, cities are often transitional spaces, of transit rather than of residence.
Examples of these places in children’s literature are numerous: Felice Holman’s Slake’s Limbo uses both the New York subway and the Commodore Hotel as central images; in Kay Thompson’s Eloise, the Plaza Hotel becomes its own imaginative sphere for its young protagonist; in E.L. Konigsberg’s The Mixed-Up-Files of Basil E. Frankweiler, the Metropolitan Museum in New York becomes the site for exploration. Cities themselves in the modern, literary imagination are places defined by transit, ambiguity, and arbitrary interactions between random individuals. Often, liminal urban places may be perceived as symbolic microcosms of the cities where they are located.Naomi Hamer
You’ve done something wrong, the community is throwing you out. You’re becoming an outcast. Your deputy principal is filling in the paperwork and you’re about to get expelled. You’re the black sheep of your family.
You are in the realm of the “thrice-nine kingdom”, the land of the living dead. This liminal realm lies between the world of the living and the thrice-ten kingdom, the land of the truly dead. (You’ll know you’re there because you’ll find a house on chicken legs.)
You’re not rich enough to afford a skiing holiday most of your friends are going on. But the poor kids think you’re rich.
You’re too beautiful to be human yet not quite a goddess. (Psyche had this same issue.)
You’re emigrating. This ship is your temporary home. (You’ve even brought your bird, with the birdcage functioning as symbol of a fully-contained house, in which you imagine you have all you could ever need.)
You’re having a rough time lately, alternating between hope and hopelessness.
You’re trying to read something interesting, but your mind keeps wandering as the text makes you think of related and tangential things. Things that upset you a little, or a lot.
You’re pregnant with your first baby. People are treating you like a mother but you’re not a mother yet. You actually have no idea how that’s going to feel.
You’re walking through fog.
You’re on an international flight and you haven’t readjusted your circadian rhythms yet and lunch arrives at a weird time. Between time zones, you’re neither here nor there. Doubly liminal if the world below is about to collapse due to an eco-crisis, as in this Helen Simpson short story.
You’re in the bathroom, standing in front of a mirror. You’ll never be able to touch one half of that space between you and your mirror-self. It creeps you out. Perhaps you’re a character in a horror movie.
You’re somewhere between wake and sleep, between consciousness and unconsciousness, fantasy and reality, or slipping from consensus reality to non-consensus reality. (You’re losing your grip.)
You’re flying high in the sky, where Heaven meets Earth. Perhaps you’re An Enormous Man With Enormous Wings in a magical realist short story by Gabriel Garcia Marquez.
You exist between the sacred realm and the profane (non-sacred). Tricksters exist here, as mythic projections of the magician archetype.
You’re transgender, gender fluid, in a quasi-romantic relationship, intersex, gender non-binary, queer, androgynous or somehow betwixt and between.
You see fairies. Fairies take many forms. They exist at any point on the spectrum of morality. But they tend to appear in liminal spaces, the inbetween spaces, when you’re on the cusp of something: manhood, giving birth, death.
Fairies are also ‘inbetween’ because people from antiquity neither believe in them nor disbelieve. Fairies (and related fantasy creatures) stand for what can never be truly known.
You’re a character in a portal fantasy, going through the portal (which is a liminal space).
- Liminoid — Another similar adjective to liminal. The liminoid has the characteristics of the liminal. But liminoid experiences are optional and don’t involve some kind of personal crisis. Graduation ceremony: liminal. Rock concert: liminoid.
- Preliminal, liminal, postliminal — the stages of transition
- Limen — a threshold below which a stimulus is not perceived or is not distinguished from another e.g. existing in the limen between X and Y
- Double liminality — Purgatory is a liminal space in its own right, but many people don’t believe in it, making it doubly liminal.
- Paracosmic realm — that space behind the big red curtain where you like to read. (Your name is Jane Eyre.)
WHY DO WE NEED THE WORD ‘LIMINAL’?
Why not just say ‘between’ or ‘border’ or any number of similar words plucked out of a thesaurus?
For starters, liminality contains layers, e.g. the doubly liminal concept of Purgatory. It’s hard to convey this layered-ness using other, more concrete words.
The painting below might depict a doubly liminal space — a train transports passengers from one side to another and it is also sunset.
Not everything that seems liminal is necessarily so. In a story, a beach may be depicted as a liminal space or, in contrast, it might be a place where the characters have fun and feel a sense of belonging. In that case, the beach is not being used in a liminal way.
Liminal space is special.
Liminality is all about ambiguity, discomfort, anxiety. A liminal space or a liminal creature is both familiar and unfamiliar — uncanny. (The dead can also be described in this way.)
Liminal situations are fluid, malleable and multi-layered.
- Social hierarchies can reverse, as in a carnivalesque story.
- Something feels weird here, but it’s never seen, never named and never known. People wouldn’t believe you if you told them about it. This is the epitome of ‘liminal’.
- If you’re in a liminal space you’re basically facing a moral dilemma. Your circumstance allows you to question social constructs. Which world do you want to be a part of? Once you’re in that liminal space you can choose to progress or retract, to take hold of freedom or remain in a state of metaphorical slavery.
- In stories, this is the bit where the main character has a Anagnorisis, or makes a moral decision.
Liminal Times Of Year
In Early Modern English these times were known as the ‘reathes of the year’.
- Hallowe’en or May Eve
- Yuletide (the 12 days from Christmas to January 6th)
- On the eve of any major feast
- New Year’s Eve
- The eve of your birthday
Liminal Stages of Life
The following are major social or physical transitions:
Four life stages are especially important for women. Notice that female writers such as Alice Munro and Carol Shields focus on main woman characters at the following junctures:
- maturing from a girl into a woman
- development of a sexual or intimate relationship with a partner, usually a man
- entering into matrimony
- conception and giving birth
Often at these liminal junctures main characters feel separated and develop a self-awareness about what they’re giving up. This makes use of crossroads symbolism; by taking one path, she cuts off others.
Sheila Egoff writes about a genre of children’s literature known as enchanted realism (similar to magical realism/fabulism) in which the child character explores an arena which is neither part of the real world nor part of the fantasy world. This might be a garden (Tom’s Midnight Garden), a wood (Enid Blyton’s The Enchanted Wood), an old house or similarly familiar space.
Header painting: Charles Harold Davis – Outside the Village 1883