There is Beauty in this Space

These are, and have been, interesting times. Almost everyone I know and love is feeling their emotions, and they are feeling them deeply. I personally feel like there is a collective swelling of something--building to somewhere--but we simply cannot find a path. And as someone who cherishes her walks, it's really, really hard to not have a path.

I had never heard the term liminal until I came across a noteworthy section of Katherine Morgan Schafler's The Perfectionists Guide to Losing Control: A Path to Peace and Power. I was struck by the fact that every where I go, every where I turn, I keep running into this tenet: true growth happens in the in-between.

As a formerly self-identified perfectionist (thank you, Katherine) I am discovering the awe-inspiring, absolutely necessary, dare I say, most important quality of transformation: the beauty and pain of the in-between.

We understand this in theory, right? For a tree to rise, a life must grow from a nestled seed hidden beneath the soil. For the moon to complete its orbit around the earth, we must view it in phases--and at times--that includes not being able to view it at all. For caterpillars to turn into to butterflies, they must retreat into the safety and vulnerability of the chrysalis. Before bread is baked, we must give it time to rise. Before the sun rises above the skyline, we must first experience the passing of the night. To fill our lungs with new fresh air, we must first exhale.

And right there--between the in and out is a moment. A pause. A space. It is needed and necessary and crucial to the process. I'm learning that the secret power of growth is not always found in the moving from A to B but rather, it is in holding the space between.

Transition, transformation, movement, momentum. Cycles, phases, orbits, seasons. New life, old life, middle life, no life. Beginning, middle, end, and then, begin again.

Liminal space is the space between here and there. What we know, don't know, and want to know. Who we are and who we want to be. Perfectionists, as it turns out, are really, really good at realizing the potential for movement and growth, and there's strength in recognizing the opportunity for better. Rarely are we able to see potential in perfection. It's the absence of perfection--the absence of omnipotence, the absence of attainment that allows us to dream and stretch and yearn and desire. We need room to be curious and room to begin again.

Learning needs liminal space, as do all aspects of our lives. When in our classrooms we jump to "filling the gaps" for our students, (ie, giving them answers, removing opportunities for productive struggle, connection, and curiosity) growth will not happen. Period. Liminal space is a non-negotiable for learning, and it's our job to create environments where holding space is embraced and required.

Adult learning, specifically collaborative team learning (you know, the kind that occurs in professional learning communities) absolutely requires liminal space. So often, administrators will ask me questions like, "What do we do next?" and "How do we keep growing our PLCs?" And since my perfectionist mind appreciates a sequence and structure, I get excited to share resources like, "Insert blog post" or explain that this is precisely why I wrote Proactive Planning for Productive PLCs--I want teams to have a clear path of steps they can follow to create safe, predictable, highly impactful learning communities.

The aspect that I find so difficult to teach, yet the need is required of me with every team and district I support--is the importance of planning for the liminal space. In theory, our teams know that transformation takes time, but in practice, our personal and district perfectionist tendencies can take over. We quickly want to know, "When will we arrive?"

The hard truth is, there is no arrival. The closest I can get you to arriving is realizing there is no arrival and instead embracing that cycles of improvement really never end. I suppose that's the perfectionist in me talking there, yet it is true.

Systems cycle, which means there will always be a "How can we get better?" hiding just beneath the surface of a well-developed Professional Learning Community structure in a district or school. Arriving is when your people embrace the improvement question as one that is critical and necessary for growth--not a trigger that prompts shame (see Shame Triggers in a PLC for more thoughts on this!)

In our personal lives, many of us have encountered (or are currently encountering) these moments that invite us to pause and consider what our next steps will be. To be completely honest, I am in a season in my own life where I am learning the preciousness of the pause, the necessity of curiosity, and the comfort of the unknown. It has taken me 42 years of experience, perfectionism, drive and goodwill--to finally arrive at this place. Where ever it is that I find myself now.

One Sunday at the start of church, we were invited to draw a little yellow star out of a basket--to see if a word might speak to us. Interestingly, my word was "Calling." And it's so funny to me because of course I feel I've been called to be a teacher and leader--but right now, I feel that "calling" has more meaning for me than that. There feels like a depth to this idea that sometimes we are called out--into spaces or places that we are unsure of--and we simply have to trust that we safe and held.

We can feel this liminal space--this calling--in our classrooms, schools, homes, communities--and I think right now, many of us feel it in our world.

Feeling this in-between is okay. It is natural. It is actually, as hard as it may feel, a part of life. Sometimes I wish I would have learned this lesson sooner; sometimes I am grateful to realize I don't have to know it all, and I'm still okay.

But mostly right now, the calling is leading me towards connection. Martha Beck shares that when you are in this type of middle-ground space, and you want to know what to do--you can ask yourself what feels warm and what feels cold. She suggests that if something feels warm, you move towards it. Freedom, she says, is warm. And then if something feels cold, well, you move away.

Here I would add this: sometimes something can feel warm and cold at the exact same time. Sometimes it's a professional you love--and have also outgrown. Sometimes it's a relationship or friendship that has honestly run its course. Oftentimes it's your own thinking or behavioral patterns that simple do not work for you anymore--and that is okay. Because you can outgrow yourself, too (and still survive--I promise).

What are we called to do? Who are we becoming--individually and collectively? What is going to happen? We know--deep down--that none of us really, actually know. And that is the beauty of this life. That is the beauty of this dance.

There is beauty in this space.