Bodies and the Space in Between
Our bodies are always in transition. Each day, our muscles, bones, and brains move through constant cycles: sleeping to waking, hungry to satiated, tired to energized (or just slightly less tired). Even on a cellular level, our cells are constantly undergoing processes of renewal. Our skin cells are shedding and regrowing; our blood cells reform themselves constantly as they filter oxygen. Each day, approximately 330 billion cells are replaced in our bodies.
Although all of us experience these transitions on cellular and bodily levels, experiencing and integrating transition into our lives is another story. The spaces of transition are liminal spaces, the space in between one phase and the next. They are the place of threshold, the place of waiting right on the edge of something new.
I have been in liminal space since August of 2020, when I found out that I’d have to have major foot reconstruction surgery. I have a disability called Charcot-Marie-Tooth Disease (no, it has nothing to do with teeth) that causes foot deformation, as well as the loss of nerve function and muscle deterioration in the feet, legs, arms, and hands. It is a degenerative disease, meaning it gets worse over time. Because of my CMT, I have lost the ability to dorsiflex (raise up my toes), and I currently wear leg braces to help me walk. I experience pain daily due to neuropathy, an old ulcer on the bottom of my foot, and my braces putting pressure on the top of my (very high) arches. Because of all of these issues, many people with CMT undergo major foot surgeries at some point in their lifetime. As I learned in August 2020, now is my time.
I initially scheduled my surgery for the summer after — June 2021. Because of a dramatic series of surgeon shifts, rescheduling troubles, and health insurance issues in the spring of 2021, the surgery had to be pushed back to June 2022.
From August 2020 to now, February 2022, I have been in liminal space. At times it has felt like I’m free-floating in a swirl of questions: What will be the outcome of the surgery? Will everything go okay? What if it doesn’t? How badly will it all hurt? How will I occupy myself during the long recovery? Will I need braces after? What will my new feet and gait look like?
While I can speculate and prepare as thoroughly as possible, many of the answers to these questions remain out of my control and out of my sphere of possible knowledge. Although it is uncomfortable, this time of uncertainty and unknowing is nothing new to me, largely thanks to my CMT. Living with a disability often brings with it liminality, uncertainty, and a lot of unknowns. Because CMT gets worse over time, I know my body will gradually lose ability, but I don’t know how (exactly), when, or to what degree. I don’t know if/when I’ll have a sudden injury (to which I am prone) or how it may impact my mobility. I don’t know if my insurance plan at any given moment will cover the cost of required treatments, assistive devices, physical therapy, or other forms of care.
Tayler Crabb, @taylercrabb.
My experience of liminality and disability has stirred up questions that most people, regardless of ability, have likely also faced: How do we navigate spaces of waiting and uncertainty? Or the space between one form of selfhood and another? Or when an element of our lives has become unsettled, but not yet resolved? How do we occupy the space between a question that has been asked and an answer that has not yet been given?
I wish I could offer some nice, simple, pre-packaged answers out of my years of experience facing disability-inspired uncertainty. Regrettably, there are no “quick fixes” here.
However, I can offer a tiny summary of my own approach. In the spaces of unknowing, I have turned to my body: the constantly-liminal flesh, the master of transition. Ironically, the body – the master of transition – can also be made master teacher of a sense of stillness and peace.
In the swirl of unknown answers and outcomes that remain out of my control, I have found that connecting with my body has allowed me to re-ground myself. Rooting oneself deeply in our bodies can be practiced in a number of ways: breathing meditation, an embodied prayer, yoga, mindful eating, Ignatian imaginative prayer, a brief art exercise, or even relishing in a favorite song.
Each of these practices help re-attune me to the goodness, richness and grace of the present moment. Practicing being fully attentive to the present moment does wonders not only for my sometimes-anxious or jittery nervous system, but also for reminding me of the Something bigger that holds my future. In each of these practices, I reconnect with the Spirit of Life in the present through my body with each breath and heartbeat. When I allow the Spirit to hold me, firmly and tenderly, in the “now,” and I find that my sense of the future shifts. My concerns about the future don’t disappear, but they become held and surrounded by and grounded in something strong and gentle and Real.
Meet Maddie Jarrett, MDiv
Maddie is a PhD student in Systematic Theology at Boston College. A midwestern girl at heart, Maddie is an alumna of the University of Notre Dame ('14). She earned her Master of Divinity from Boston College's School of Theology and Ministry, and prior to her PhD, taught theology and psychology at a high school in the Boston area. Her research interests include theological anthropology, disability, and embodied experiences of grace and limitation. Hear more about her surgery journey and her experience of disability on her Instagram, @the_homecoming_.