Quiet repairs in liminal spaces

Practicing the art of kintsugi to renew what was once lost.

We’re well into December, and the end of 2020 is approaching, with both the Winter Solstice and the Great Conjunction occurring today.

These days, I often find myself sitting in liminal spaces. For me, it’s that space between knowing and uncertainty, action and rest. This year, as I’m sure many can relate, has challenged our ability to sit still in our own respective liminal spaces.

I feel like I do a pretty good job of staying in the present long enough to identify what I feel, understand it, then pocket what I must to carry on about my day. Maybe I’ll come back to it another time. Likely, but not now. I’ve gotten better about maintaining this simultaneous sense of presence and boundary, but today felt particularly heavy. My mother called to let me know four more of my extended relatives have gotten COVID-19, which makes the total number of individuals I know who’ve gotten sick with the virus to fifteen. One death. I’m grateful that my immediate family and I continue to be healthy.

For many of us, there’s a certain threshold number where the humanity behind the figure becomes a blur, and a sense of anonymity pervades. I’m not sure I’ve reached that yet.

While I lean into this discomfort in hopes of finding renewed strength and courage, I’m going to practice the art of kintsugi to meditate on what’s been lost and breathe some new life in treasured items.