Hell in the Hallway

The adage, when God closes a door, she opens a window, can be helpful if one is feeling short on trust; but my friend Dori adds, "but it's hell in the hallway!" and that bow to Reality makes it easier for me to live into the faith part. Transitions are part and parcel of a satisfying life--in my humble opinion. The alternative is a never-ending status quo, which seems like death to me.

When I was a student at South Bay School, my playground-activity-of-choice was the flying rings. I was not then--or ever--an athlete, though I was something of a tomboy. But in my inflated memory, I was a very daring second grade Master of the Rings. When it was my turn I shouted out, as the rule of playground etiquette mandated, that I was GOING HIGH!, a warning to hapless idiot children not to choose that moment to walk under the playset. On at least one memorable occasion, someone in the adoring crowd crowed back that WHEN SHE SAYS HIGH, SHE MEANS HIGH! A proud moment. The thing about the rings is that there is no way to traverse them without letting go with one hand and, as you twirl your body 180 degrees, live through the space before the next ring is in your hand. The scaredy-cat children, in their fear of that space, would let their bodies come to a dead stop before letting go; but then, of course, there is no way to get to the next ring, and so they drop to the ground. Those who can't let go of the ring, miss all the life-on-the-edge fun of flying.

Transition--that space between the familiar and the next big thing when there is nothing to hold onto--is hallway time. It is scary. It is hell in the hallway. Humanitarian Danaan Parry said, "I have noticed that, in our culture, this transition is looked upon as a 'no-thing,' a no-place between places. I have a sneaking suspicion that the transition zone is the only real thing, and the [rings] are illusions we dream up to avoid where the real change, the real growth occurs for us." That's some shit to ponder, huh?

I had knee surgery this week for a torn meniscus, and have experienced the transition between an unhealthy knee and the coming healthy one. While I didn't like the reduction in activity resulting from the damaged knee, I was familiar with it. I let go of the ring when I decided to have the surgery without real knowledge of what the convalescence would be like, or for that matter, the result. I had to ring-dangle in the hall for a few weeks stewing about that. Now, post-surgery, the next ring is in within my grasp; but I am not good at enforced stillness--especially when the garden is calling. I am doing okay with it. I only transplanted one thing this weekend. Well, two, but I thought it was one. Just a hosta that has languished for three years; not happy were it was planted. I practically pulled it out of the ground; and I was careful to work my shovel with my left foot, so no worries. I also might have ripped down some nandina from the base of the pyracantha where it keeps sprouting up, since I was right there. And while I was at it, I guess I pulled a few weeds. But mostly I sat in the aderondack chair on the deck. I observed life in the garden that requires a stillness that I usually don't take time for.

Saturday's Scone and Journal Time was on my deck, since I couldn't drive. It was hard not to be at my accustomed table at Cafe Carolina, but the birds are better. I do love watching the LBBs feeding their young the crumbs from under my chair at the Cafe, but the variety on my deck was a transition time highlight. Cardinals, towhees, flitting chickadees, and a couple of unknowns that I tried to identify in my Backyard Birds book. My favorite, the tufted titmice/ mouses/ meese, whose mohawks bounce up and down as heads bob to the seed and back. Even the first hummingbirds of the season whirred by.  Lots of babies, transitioning from nest to flight, are among the feeders. Along with the birds I have watched a squirrel stalking a cardinal across the lawn--and eating the birdseed. Really, it had no interest in the cardinal, but that’s what it looked like. A baby robin hopped about while mama called to it. I think it didn’t mean to be out of the nest. A cardinal couple engaged in a public display of affection, and a hawk made lazy circles in the sky. My cat has a fascination with the dwarf mondo wild phlox buttercup garden at the back of the yard. I wonder what is of such interest; I'm not sure I want to know.

Transition is happening in the garden, too. Early bloomers are transitioning to seed pod, later bloomers from bud to blossom, vegetation of summer flowers to come is growing at the speed of light, and my vegetables are transitioning to, well, vegetables. The winged seeds of the Japanese maple let go of their hold on the branch and twirl airborne to the ground where they begin a new life. The euphorbia I transplanted several weeks ago from its spot in an area too shady has put on new growth. The summer phlox is re-established and standing tall. The miniature hosta I moved from its  burial spot in the creeping Jenny seems happy. 

The leaves of the early bulb bloomers are transitioning back into the soil as they siphon strength from the sun down to the bulbs in preparation of their time of rest and rejuvenation until next season. “The earth is its own museum, and the admission is free. Until you die, then you become part of the exhibit” (Jo-Ann Mapson).

Speaking of death, my sister--who came to help me navigate Post-surgery Transition-- took us for a drive through the cemetery. Only freshly ground mulch from the toppled trees and the occasional stump still to be ground out give clue to the fact of Tornado Destruction such a short time ago. You can’t even tell which trees lost their tops--did they cut them down, or just prune them beyond identification? There’s something that feels not quite right about the quick repair. Did it need more time in the hallway? I think I needed it to.

I have observed in myself and others that there can be a lot of anger during times of transition. I have been privileged to be present during the birth of a baby. A whole lot of uninhibited anger expression as the baby travels down the birth hallway. And there's a reason the baby cries when it emerges, beyond the physical need. It's mad as hell! When the transition is not one's choice, job or relationship loss, for instance, anger is practically a given. In her book, Life is a Verb, Patti Digh wonders how often, though, might anger really be fear? We just want other people to act right. Our employers to recognize our valuable contributions and keep us. How dare they kick us from the nest! Our lovers and partners not to dump us, when clearly we are the best thing that ever happened to them. We are Angry! And they could at least pretend to continue to care about us after they fire us, lay us off, dump us and move on without a care in the world about our pain. But what is our real interest? Could it be fear? Fear of change, fear of going it alone, fear of chaos? When I left my former partner, I understood that her uncontrolled anger was because it is less painful somehow to be angry than sad; but what if it was fear? I don't know that she could have allowed me to give voice to that, but it might have helped me think about her reaction differently. What if our anger actually has little to do with the other person not acting right? Might that insight make all the difference in our internal gardens?

A favorite poem of mine is The Layers, by Stanley Kunitz (http://www.americanpoems.com/poets/Stanley-Jasspon-Kunitz/18274).

"...In my darkest night,
when the moon was covered
and I roamed through wreckage,
a nimbus-clouded voice
directed me:

'Live in the layers,
not on the litter.'
Though I lack the art
to decipher it,
no doubt the next chapter
in my book of transformations
is already written.
I am not done with my changes."

Liminal space. 

Between the layers. 

In the hallway. 

Transition. 

That is where life is lived.

Holding onto the rings with both hands

is just where we rest

between life's real events.