Betwixt

I typically enjoy the liminal space between Christmas and the new year. It’s one of the few times I can figuratively sigh and be more present. The only other time that evokes a similar feeling is when I’m away on vacation. It’s like both the calendar and the universe give us permission to take a beat. I fully embrace this as I’m always readying for something, whatever the hell it is. I tap dance my way through life. You know how it goes … five, six, seven, eight …

A liminal space, it’s that space between spaces. It’s the in between. You can be both in this AND in that, betwixt coming and going. In Latin, the word “limen” means “threshold”. Some cultures even have rituals to commemorate these life transitions. I think of the rituals of adolescence in both the Catholic and Jewish faiths demarcating the passage from childhood to adulthood. To me it also signifies being on a precipice.

It’s taken on new meaning for me as our father got sick and quickly succumbed to metastatic lung cancer this fall. That experience became a sort of liminal space, too. You had to handle the matters of the day, so to speak, while tending to something you intuitively felt you’d never get another shot at again. The chance to show up when it counted most of all. There was the life we had always known with our father in it, and the one it was becoming, as he hastily faded away.

Our father was a larger-than-life person; it made it difficult to wrap your head around it all as it was unfolding. I mean, c’mon, Manning was a lion. He was a strong man in every sense of that word. He was stoic and rarely shared vulnerability, indicative of his Irish American lineage. As emotionally difficult as it was for us to acknowledge what was happening, we saw it, my sisters and me. We rose to the occasion and were each fortunate to spend time with him. We coalesced in our love for him and for one another.

My heart broke on the evening of September 22 when he passed away. But it was unlike any encounter I’ve ever previously had with heartbreak. My heart cracked open, and I was almost instantaneously awash in love and gratitude. Like everything that had ever been spoken and unspoken, expressed and unexpressed, came forward. It was a lifetime of love, messy with all it’s good intentions and flawed glory. It was the most heartachingly beautiful experience I’ve ever had with grief. I’ve since come to realize it was a last parting gift from my father and all his pure, unadulterated love.

We’ve all seen people recapping their year and showcasing the highlight reel in the past week or so. You know, the holiday cards chronicling family achievements throughout the year. The social media posts showcasing a good and golden life. Listen, I’m guilty of it, too.

But I’ve got to admit; I’ve always been a little suspicious of anyone depicting a picturesque, charmed life. Everything’s great, everything’s wonderful, it’s all coming up roses for all of us. Blah, blah, blah, blah. Is it? Is it really? (Insert side eye here). Be honest. Did everything go your way? What was cracked? Anything? And how did you manage to fix it? How did you find your way to triumph against all those cards stacked against you? Boy, I’d love to hear people freely sharing those stories! I bet it resounds for a lot of us.

This essay is just one takeaway I’ve had about my dad and grief. I will undoubtedly share more in the coming days as the past few months, with all their trials and tribulations, have been rife with profundity. This year I was fortunate to continue in meaningful work, spend some time with my sons and loved ones, and managed to get away from time to time. But the most momentous thing to happen to me in 2025 wasn’t anything planned or wished for on my bingo card. Death has a way of crystallizing things for you.

I recently came across this quote, "joy and grief are threads in the same fabric—pull one, and the other moves." I’m deeply appreciative and grateful because I have known loss throughout my life. It’s helped me learn to live with and, as odd as it sounds, make friends with grief. I know it’s hard, but when things are difficult, I implore you, do not look away; face it and feel it. Fall apart when you need to, and when you’re done, pick yourself up and push through. I have, and in return, it’s taught me what a tremendous gift love really is.