The Wisdom Of lingering on the thresold
With all its logic and rules, life at its core is entirely unpredictable. We are on an endless journey, walking through doors which keep taking us somewhere unexpected. A grocery store opens onto a beach, which leads to your childhood bedroom, from there to a phone booth, the land of giants, a bus stop. What we think should bring us peace turns into anxiety; what looks terrifying — frees us; what was supposed to be a casual conversation leads us deeper than we ever expected. It is a wonderful journey indeed, but it can be disorienting.
As with any journey, it is about movement. Continuous exploration and change. Yet now I want to invite you to pause, right on the threshold, between what was before and what's about to come. This in-between space, which is often stepped over in our strive for progress. And we find ourselves dragging pieces we have collected in our previous journey into the new reality, surprised at why it feels so heavy to settle into it. Or alternatively, we drop everything without a second thought and wander forwards, struggling for basic safety.
What if we gave it some time? What if we allowed ourselves to sit on the threshold, in this mythical space between the past and present, a place belonging to no timeline yet a crucial part of every one of them? What if we released with care and gratitude and then made space to hold both states at once: what was and what is to come. This ability to hold many states simultaneously is how we truly grow: without discarding, without rush, without judgement — we take it all in, allowing the sad and the exciting to coexist at the same time, in the same heart.
If we allow ourselves time to stay still for a while, things begin to surface. Things which may go unnoticed when we are charging forward. Gentle things, forgotten things, shy, sad, uncomfortable things. Obvious things. In the modern world we fly through so many transitions without acknowledging their magnitude. From people who were born and who died around the same cluster of villages, doing what generations before had done without much change, we have become people who can move ten times in a lifetime, changing cities, languages and continents. We change jobs and careers, we form and transform families, we go through many relationships, we ail and we heal — and rarely do we stop to admit how major every one of these changes is.
We used to have rituals for every transition, even for seasons changing. A punctuation of life. It is necessary if we want the story to have depth and meaning.
Often life itself is asking us to take notice and allow the pause to take us deeper. Do you know a period where you feel like you have done the work, you grew and learned, and now are in the doorway of a new beginning — and suddenly things become uncomfortable: you are sad, you are worried, you are challenged? Old wounds reopen, past fears come back, what felt like the ultimate goal makes you feel out of place or lost. This is life inviting us to pause for a moment, to spend time in this liminal space and take account of what is present here. What brought you here and why? Is it still aligned? What are you leaving behind — good and bad? How will the next step challenge you, and do you know how to support yourself through it? What will you miss once you step into the next period? This last question I find especially meaningful: in our quest for further growth and progress, it may be tempting to leave the past behind without much thought. But even if the new stage is an uplevel, taking you to your most treasured goals, every transition means leaving something behind, letting something go — and that asks for acknowledgment. Sometimes even grief. New possibilities can mean letting go of a period of calm; new relationships change a routine you've built; the end of something heavy is a blessing, but also a leaving behind of familiar patterns and masks.
With life moving ever faster, it seems almost impossible to take the time to just be, to not rush into the new leg of the journey when it's right here, the door open, calling us on. So I started thinking about this as an actual trip. Imagine we took a trip, and another one is coming up. Even if we packed well for the first one, it doesn't mean the same luggage will do for the upcoming journey. We need to sort through clothes, do laundry, check the weather, get rid of old receipts and sand in the pockets, put the magnets on the fridge, tell our friends about our adventures, have a good night's sleep, for heaven's sake. And then we can move on — fresh, and light, and prepared. The threshold space is where the work of emotional and mental repacking happens. So what if we lingered here a little longer before taking the next step? Not out of fear or avoidance, but out of respect: for everything that brought us here, and for everything that's waiting behind that door. Be it a lush jungle, a school classroom, or an intergalactic flight.
