Witnessing in Liminal Space
Following Session 4: Witnessing in Liminal Space
January 12, 2026 — February 10, 2026
Synthesis Statement
Making the subject the object.
We, by and large, begin immersed in the Old Story. The first few sessions helped us recognize that there is an Old Story, that a New Story may be possible, and that there is a transition between the two. Those early sessions worked to loosen our attachment to the old and to help us step into the Liminal Space.
This most recent session was about seeing ourselves in that liminal space—about recognizing what it looks like and feels like to be there.
Understanding what it looks like.
Its textures.
How to dwell there—in the unknown, in the discomfort—comfortably.
We talked about how our habits, our normal ways of looking at things, very likely tie us to the Old Story, and what it might mean to move ourselves differently—to see ourselves from within liminal space rather than trying to observe it from a distance. What practices and perspectives might help us remain there? By better understanding that space, we may be able to immerse ourselves more fully within it.
We discussed a four-fold movement for nurturing ourselves in liminal space:
Witness the end of the Old Story
Grieve the pain associated with endings
Pray for those who are suffering
Act for the good of all
We will spend more time with the latter three in future sessions. This session focused most deeply on Witnessing.
One story we discussed came from the Old Testament. When the Jews were led from slavery in Egypt toward the Promised Land, they wandered the desert for forty years. Geographically speaking, Israel is not a forty-year journey from Egypt. Rather, it took time for the older generations—and perhaps more importantly, the older paradigms—to loosen their grip and pass away.
We also discussed a Sufi story of the Mullah who searches for his lost keys in a familiar, well-lit place rather than venturing into the darkness where they were actually lost. This brought to mind an idea often attributed to Einstein: that the significant problems we face cannot be solved at the same level of thinking that created them.
I see this dynamic playing out in my own life. When I think about how to prepare my child for the future, I recognize a generation raised in a world of ubiquitous technology. They have never known a time when nearly any question could not be answered with a few keystrokes. While I can teach fundamentals, I have a hard time anticipating the institutions or industries that will dominate when his generation becomes the primary workforce—assuming society even resembles what we now imagine over the next fifteen to forty-five years. Similarly, it feels implausible to expect today’s legislative elders to meaningfully regulate emerging technologies like AI. I consider myself relatively tech-savvy, yet my child can run circles around me on my phone, just as I once did around my parents.
The point, at least as I am beginning to understand it, is that we may need to loosen our attachment to inherited ways of thinking and operating in order to give ourselves space to discover what might yet become.
We also talked about the need to recognize that the Old Story is dying and that, in a sense, it deserves hospice care. We are invited to allow it to die gracefully—with the least damage to itself or to those around it, with the least fallout, and with care, dignity, and respect. Marie Kondo offers a simple wisdom here: when letting something go, thank it for what it gave you, and then allow it to depart.
In meditation, one of the goals, as I understand it, is to make the subject the object. We are often trapped in our minds—thinking endless thoughts, feeling endless emotions, pulled in countless directions. But when we step back and witness this activity, when we create even a small amount of space, we begin to know ourselves differently.
I am drawn to Sri Ramana Maharshi’s self-inquiry practice. We ask ourselves:
I have a body, but I am not my body. Who am I?
I have thoughts, but I am not my thoughts. Who am I?
I have feelings, but I am not my feelings. Who am I?
In this practice, awareness slowly shifts toward the consciousness that is witnessing sensations, thoughts, emotions, and experiences as they arise and pass.
As we root ourselves there, we begin to empty ourselves out—not in a diminishing way, but in a receptive one. Perhaps this is how we become vessels for Spirit. Perhaps this is how we step more fully into liminal space and begin to sense what might arise that feels aligned with a New Story.
And so, through witnessing—within ourselves, in the world around us, and in the broader Old Story—we give ourselves space. Space to listen. Space to remain present. Space for something new to emerge.
We were offered a poem during the session, whose final lines stayed with me:
The rest of this must be said in silence
because of the enormous difference
between light and the words
that try to say light.
A few other lines I jotted down over the course of our session:
When in doubt, practice loving kindness.
Liminal space is a place to refill your tank.
The prophets may sometimes sound angry, but they speak from anguish—their hearts broken open, their love outpouring to all.
Bill also shared something deceptively simple that resonated deeply with me. We were coming off the holidays—a time I often experience as overwhelming: too many people, too many activities, too much noise. Bill said that rather than focusing on the holiday season, he looks for holiday moments.
I loved this.
That shift—to be present and open to noticing those special moments that arise—feels far more manageable, and perhaps more meaningful over time. It feels like another way of witnessing. Stopping, now and then, to smell the roses.
Report on Practice
Witnessing as an Opening
Witnessing was at the center of this period’s practice. Our invitation was to engage with the news—to stay informed without becoming consumed by fear or worry, while still holding care and compassion. That distinction feels important.
It is easy to slip into apathy. Cognitive overload. Especially for empathetic and caring people. But the aim was not withdrawal. It was presence—staying with the chaos and seeing it for what it is.
During this period, I attended a summit for survivors of commercial sexual exploitation. One moment in particular has stayed with me. A survivor spoke about spending decades of her life being exploited—used for others’ gain, physically and financially. She was entertainment. She was an asset. She was property. More than five decades after being coerced into a life marked by violence, drugs, and confinement—often bought and sold—she was now standing freely before policymakers, practitioners, and advocates, speaking on her own behalf.
What struck me most was the challenge she offered. Their ask is large. And it is not unfair. It is for change.
If all we do is listen for our own benefit, are we not also exploiting them—however unintentionally? If we witness without responding, without allowing ourselves to be changed, what kind of witnessing is that?
That stayed with me for days. Weeks, even. I did hear them. I witnessed them. But to what degree was that enough?
I don’t think true witnessing is a closed act.
We can see something and let it pass. But I attended with an open heart and an open mind. I went to truly listen. In doing so, I allowed their stories to shift something at my core. They have shaped how I think. They influence the conversations I have. They inform the decisions I make.
Since the summit, I have written about the experience and spoken about it publicly, including at a City Council meeting. That happened because of witnessing. Would it have occurred without that specific insight into exploitation? I honestly cannot say. But I do know that my worldview expanded, and that I will carry those stories into future conversations and decisions.
Witnessing, I am learning, is much more than simply seeing something happen.
A Realignment of Habits
My wife was traveling for a few months before the holidays. This was the longest we had been apart since we married more than a quarter century ago. My experience probably included all the elements you would expect. I missed her presence, and I enjoyed my autonomy. I had to do more for myself and less for someone else. I had more to manage around the house, yet fewer people around the house to account for. All of that was fairly easy to anticipate.
What was a bit more interesting was the living-without-a-partner-and-then-getting-them-back part.
At first, it was a bit like moving out of your parents’ house as a kid. You can do whatever you want, whenever you want. There’s a sense of unlimited freedom. Not that I ever felt bound — my wife and I have always been supportive of one another’s interests. Still, we would always check in with each other: what are you up to, do you want to do something together, what does the rest of the day look like?
Living “alone,” that check-in simply wasn’t there.
I was free to move as I pleased. I flowed more naturally across work, rest, socializing, exercise, reading, recreation, bathing, cooking, and sleep. Over time, certain rhythms emerged — some more prominent than others. It was, honestly, a fascinating way to come into contact with myself.
Then, months later, anticipating her return became its own experience.
Of course, I was excited to see her and be with her again. I could feel that something important had been missing. My partner. My confidante. My emotional co-regulator. And alongside that excitement, there was nervousness. What would reintegration be like? How would it affect my flow? Would it put more on my plate and feel heavier? Or would it take something off and feel lighter?
So, circling back to witnessing: when she arrived, I noticed myself slipping back into old habits. I checked in with her frequently. Context matters here — we both primarily work from home, so it’s easy to wrap up a meeting, see what the other person is up to, then head back to your desk and dive into whatever comes next.
But fairly quickly, I realized something.
I didn’t always need to check in with her first. And she didn’t need me to do so either. It was often healthier for me to check in with myself. What did I need next? What was my current flow state? Once I decided I was going to go for a hike, for example, I could then mention it to her and ask if she wanted to join.
In the weeks that followed, something subtle but meaningful shifted.
We became stronger both together and apart. More comfortable together, and more comfortable not. We could come and go to our respective obligations, keep one another in the loop, connect over shared moments — coffee, walks, meals, a movie, a dance, a date — while still maintaining a healthy autonomy that, somehow, I’m not sure we fully had before.
It’s honestly hard to say exactly what changed. We’ve been together a long time. We’ve been through a lot. There have been peaks and valleys, ebbs and flows, clean lines and blurry ones.
But something feels stronger now. Cleaner. More grounded.
And it feels like it includes a deeper kind of witnessing.
If this reflection has been of value, you’re welcome to support the time and care that go into this work.