01/18/2026
January has shown me winter in contrast—
frozen water and icicles on one day,
dancing drops on pine needles the next.
A massive root lifted from the earth,
not fallen—just revealed.
This is how my life feels right now.
Not broken. Not settled.
Uprooted enough to see what was always holding me.
I’ve been thinking about liminal space—
the space between spaces.
The pause between breaths.
The silence between thoughts,
where some say God lives.
Where wisdom slips in unnoticed.
We’re between years:
January 1 for some,
the Year of the Snake waiting for others.
Between endings and beginnings,
between knowing and becoming.
In Tibetan Buddhism there is Bardo—
a transitional state, neither here nor there.
In the West, we often fear the in-between,
call it purgatory, make it something to escape.
But what if transition isn’t punishment—
what if it’s essential?
Birth. Pause.
Life. Pause.
Death. Pause.
Rebirth. Pause.
The pause is not empty.
It’s alive.
It’s where meaning gathers.
Where roots loosen.
Where water learns how to dance again.
Selah.
Think on that.
