Letting go, emptying—over and over. Some days I feel like I am that little symbol used by the email system where I used to work, for deleting deleted files. The little trash can with trash levitating out of it and drifting off to the bigger trash can in the sky or wherever. Every day something/someone else seems to leave or I let go of it. My career. My wine at night, coffee, comfort foods that don’t bring comfort anymore. Ideas I’ve held for so long. Patterns. Friends. Routines. Weight. And most humorous of all, I lost my “I.” My “I” key on my keyboard that is. The universe is such a clever trickster. Ha ha. (Growl)

Sometimes it feels scary. And lonely. I may believe from much of my reading that creation comes from the Void, that you have to make room for the new to come in by letting go of the old==but being in the midst of it is different than believing it.

I like the word “liminal” for where I am better than “Void.” Jane Hirshfield writes beautifully about liminal states in her book about writing poetry.

Victor Turner describes the liminal as the time and space integral to all rites of passage. Entering this condition, a person leaves behind his or her old identity and dwells in a threshold state of ambiguity, openness, and indeterminacy. Only afterward may the initiate enter into new forms of identity and relationship.

Her point in the chapter is that artists often exist in liminal states, empty themselves out and thus become open to all, being inhabited by and speaking for others, including those beyond the realm of the human. Interesting that she quotes Emily Dickinson as an example of this liminal state, since I was just talking about her to someone this week.

Between my country—and the others—
There is a sea”.

I’ve felt that way much of my life. But also wonder if part of the process I’m in now is about even emptying out that sea. Of letting go of some of the distance that exists between me and others, of the breadth of my solitude. In keeping with that thought, she also quotes Thoreau who says “ I left the woods for as good a reason as I went there. Perhaps it seemed to me I had several more lives to live, and could not spare any more time for that one.”

Hirshfield says “A superficial or external marginality can become an identity as conventional as any other, and then it too becomes only a thing to be dropped..”

It’s hard though—I do love my ruts, they are so comfortable. Being dragged out of so many of them at once is painful and scary. I look at the little trail I’ve made over time down to the tree I put the suet on for the birds. Just walking down there once or twice a day has created it. It’s interesting to me how it curves, not a straight line. I’ve followed that exact curve for over 3 years now.

I was up at top of driveway the other day, and it was like I’d entered another world. So much activity going on, my eyes skipped excitedly from place to place. I’ve let it go completely wild up there, so there are all kinds of wildflowers, some I’ve never seen. And lots of wildflower lovers were flitting about—bees and beauteous butterflies, swallows out in the lespedesia field. A wild green dragonfly with jaunty striped tail.

Daisy couples in love.

A spider lit by the sun so that it looked made of light, descending a glowing strand of silk from the sky. The scent of honeysuckle permeated all. And happily for me Tiger was keeping me company stalking grasshoppers. A beam caught the loveliest little butterfly I’ve ever seen (an Eastern tailed blue I’ve discovered since) as she lit on clover. My heart fluttered along with her wings. And I thought how wonderful to contemplate that something so incandescent with life had not so long ago been in her own liminal state.

[There are images related to Billie’s post on her blog site: http://www.sensuousbroom.com/]