Winter slipped into spring as I prayed and blogged and watched, the initial drama of signing on with hospice morphing into a manageable routine. The hospice nurse and chaplain continued their weekly visits, offering guidance and compassion and laughter. Their seasoned attitude toward terminal illnesses, with emotional and spiritual manifestations, reassured me that I was in special hands. Although still eligible for their care, the parameters of my world began to chafe my spirit. I needed something else.

Then, I happened upon liminal space, a pregnant image that stretched the contours of my swollen limits. Despite low energy, my psyche could breathe again. True, I had cut loose the moorings of past abilities and places I loved to frequent. True, I had no interest in large gatherings, wherever housed. True, I had found increasing solace within my simple home, its solitude and silence enhancing prayer and study. Grief spells came and went, leaving troughs of raw feelings. Dreams continued tweaking my life-path into deeper honesty.

Thus enriched, my watching and waiting took on new dimensions: there was life beyond the diseased one of my eighty-four years, in this incarnation. There would be more learning, deeper joy in Creator God’s multiple universes. I would no longer feel estranged from my true home. Supporting me in this orientation were my CPA community and close family and friends.

From my depths, something like hope began to sing. This would work out. I just had to listen for cues and take the next step, wherever it led.

As one commentator said about liminal space, “Honor the space between no longer and not yet.” It’s where the Sacred dwells, source of ultimate transformation.