Have you ever felt like you’re just hanging in an in-between space – on the threshold of something new, but not quite there yet?
In a time threaded with liminality, all I have to offer is my finite, fallible self, my defenseless skin, and I try to hold onto my capacity to be faithful to the inexhaustible opening of time and whatever glories or agonies attend it. I think about the coming months, this precarious stretch, my parents and my infamous traveling Crock-Pot, the urgencies of art, stacks of sentences that require me to wrap myself around silence and suffering and joy’s quiet possibilities so closely that I recognize myself in every note of grandeur and desolation.
You can read the rest of this essay by Judith Hougen at Art House America.