The time inbetween

Snowdrops, heralding spring

A few months ago on a Sunday morning I rose and went downstairs to make morning tea. I’d switched on the radio.  It was Sunday Worship. This time not tired hymns, but a man called Philip Blackledge with  a lovely, deep,  lilting voice. He was talking about liminal spaces - the time between times. This is the moment when I realised how much these spaces mean to me.

Liminal from the Latin  limin meaning threshold, the space inbetween.

He was talking about how he loved the time between arriving at church and the service starting - full of new meetings and old reunions, gossip and greetings. He spoke about liminal spaces at work - between meetings and at the water cooler/ kettle; while travelling at airports, railway stations, the journey itself. How the modern world has eroded our liminal space. Working from home and our capacity to immerse ourselves in our phones has reduced opportunities for those chance encounters, random conversations and time to dream and wonder about things.

Liminal spaces are often uncomfortable and full of mixed emotions. I’ve come to realise that my arrival at events ‘just in time/ late’ is a subconscious avoidance of the random conversations and maybe the discomfort of not knowing what to say or worse still, not having anyone to talk to.

They are times of change where you are not the past version of you and not yet the future version but in a limbo space waiting - pregnancy and birth and death are such times. 

Spaces that demand sitting with the not knowing, uncomfortable, painful transition times, full of challenge, fear, opportunity, transformation, creativity, leaps of faith and  trust.  But sometimes it's just about sitting on a bus and waiting for a train. Below is what happened when I did just that.

I felt a slight skitter of concern as the bus veered into the right-hand lane. Weren’t we supposed to go straight on? Were there other villages to visit before the straight run into Gloucester? Deftly the bus entered the bus lane. I was on my way to London and feeling smug and excited in turn. 

I’d taken the bus to the train station. This wasn’t completely without hiccups. When I thought I’d check my tickets I found I hadn’t received a confirmation email, checking further it seemed I hadn’t added the CVV number of my card. I’d gone to find my card and got distracted by something else and hadn’t actually paid. Anyway it turned out that the train I’d planned to catch had been cancelled - I had to catch the next one a whole hour later. This was fine because I hadn’t got any commitments until 6pm. I’ve been using Google maps for all things travel related and it told me there was no bus an hour later - perhaps I’d have to drive after all. Something felt odd about that, so I checked the bus timetable and yes there was a bus. The bus/train combo plan was on. A whole hour - I’d write… In fact this turned into 25 minutes because it seemed I should collect the washing in and do some washing up. I’d also need time to lock up and visit the toilet. I set my timer. The writing was really typing up some previous writing that was in various notebooks and journals but still good to do.

It was so hot at the bus stop. I went to stand under the nearest tree and realised that was the actual bus stop. The timetable had been updated in September 2023. There was a bus shelter but it was made of perspex and it was even hotter there than it was outside. There was also a bench nearby commemorating the Queen’s platinum Jubilee in early summer 2023. It was made of plastic and was too hot to sit on. I planted my feet on the ground and waited.

The bus came bang on time and cost me only £2.00. I headed for the one free seat that wasn’t backward facing or a priority seat. This was on top of the rear wheel; there was a big bump at every pot hole. The bus went on its way to the next village, past the cool woods we had walked in the previous week and squeezed past a car with centimetres to spare. Bus drivers are amazing drivers.

An elderly man in hiking clothes got on and then got off soon after. A lady huffed and puffed down the stairs to alight carrying her super-loaded carrier bags . The girl two rows in front was videoing the trip and herself. At last we pass the Gloucester furniture store incongruous amongst the barbers, nail bars and pubs. 

I had 40 minutes to spare. I never did work out how much more time I would have had if I had driven, but I still would have had to book the parking and find the car park. I was glad of the 40 minutes. The station car park was a site of renovation, I assumed into another car park. It meant that pedestrians had to walk around the  three sides of the perimeter of the former car park. I calmly collected my tickets - not the mad scrambling in my bag to find my card and type in the code. I found the toilet and bought a cup of tea. What on earth was I doing buying tea on the hottest day of the year? I settle onto the bench on the platform - with the lid off the tea so it cools down and I write. 

Smug… I arrived calm, cooler than I would have otherwise have been, collected and saved money. I reduced my carbon footprint. I’d given myself an experience and time to wonder and ponder. I’d been in a liminal space.

Thank you for reading.

I’m Carol, book coach and story gardener.

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