Liminality, Man

I’m living in a strange in-between right now—a kind of stretch between two definitions of self, neither of which feel entirely real, but both of which press against me from all sides. It’s liminal in the most honest sense: not quite lost, but certainly not found. And maybe I’m not supposed to be either. A season not chosen, but deeply shaping. A pause, not restful but humming with quiet pressure, where movement is both necessary and restricted. Where every decision has weight but limited reach. I’m here, living through the tension of beginnings that haven’t begun yet.

Since moving from Canada to DC with my wife Mel, we’ve been staying with her family while we wait. Wait for the gears of immigration to turn—slow, rusted, and deeply flawed. Wait to know where we’ll land next. Wait to see if this country decides I’m worthy of presence. I’m approaching being illegal now—my visitor visa is nearing its end, and while we’re in the process of applying for something more permanent, the threat of mass deportations hangs thick in the air. I imagine it’s like standing in the doorway between countries, between identities, between dreams and constraints. And there’s no clean line between waiting and stagnation, no clear boundary between patience and paralysis. This indifferent system turns our life into a question mark—and somehow expects us to build something beautiful inside it. Try and grow in a place that doesn’t quite allow us to take root. It’s an unsteady kind of survival, where being seen is both necessity and risk. I’m not supposed to leave, and yet I’m not fully allowed to stay. So I hover.
And in that hovering, I’ve had to slow down—more than I ever thought I could. Not in the way that feels romantic or mindful, but in the heavy, sedimented way that makes days blur into each other. My spiritual practices have quieted to a murmur. My paintings, though still coming through, feel like they’re gasping for air in a room I haven’t fully opened. I’m still creating, still reaching for that internal voice, even if cautiously. Even if hidden. Even if the brush trembles with more than color. That says something sacred—about devotion, about resilience, about love. Not the easy kind, but the kind that stays through discomfort, that opens and stretches and asks: what is partnership when there is nowhere to run? What is art when it cannot be safely shared? Who am I now, when my sense of place has been stripped of legality and yet I remain? The volume has dipped, though, muffled by the fear of exposure. It’s hard to put yourself out there when being visible could mean being torn away.
Back home, I knew the rhythm. I had collectors, shows, a sense of how to move through the art world. Here, I’m re-learning it all. Starting again in a place that hasn’t yet asked for me. Looking for representation. Applying to every open call I can find. Trying to trust that the right eyes will land on the right pieces, even if I can’t be in the room to see it happen. It’s difficult to re-plant yourself when the soil is muddy and uncertain. When even the sun feels like it might turn against you.
But there is a strange intimacy in this limbo. Not just with myself, though that too—but with Mel. We’re learning how to really be together. Not just in the joyful or poetic sense, but in the practical, ordinary, sometimes grinding reality of shared struggle. There’s something raw and sacred in being this exposed with someone—no distractions, no safety nets, just honesty. What it means to stay. To hold the weight of the unknown together without letting it crush us. Sometimes that looks like quiet morning drives to the gym with pre-workout and no words. Sometimes it looks like crying together on the floor in our only private space because the future feels too big to carry. But we’re doing it. Together. And that feels like something.

There’s a lot I don’t know right now. About where we’ll live, how long this in-between will stretch, what my career will look like here. I don’t know when I’ll feel truly safe again—or what “safe” even means anymore. But I’m still painting. Still writing. Still dreaming, even if the dreams are softer now, spoken in whispers rather than declarations.
I wonder if this liminal state—unmoored, precarious, undefined—might be its own spiritual practice. Learning how to be in the fog without demanding clarity. Letting stillness be a kind of devotion. A confrontation with impermanence. With trust. With surrender. The stagnation I feel isn’t a failure, its a waiting womb. My slowness is not stagnation but a necessary stillness before re-emergence.

So for now, I stay in the doorway. Brush in hand and an open heart. Waiting, but not idle. Changing, quietly. Trusting that even in this pause, something is being woven.