This is my last day in the office at Hillcrest Mennonite Church. This Sunday I will be preaching my last sermon here. On Monday I will pick of the Uhaul and Tuesday set out on the serpentine Ontario leg of the Trans-Canada. This is a place where it is still possible to run out of gas before reaching a 24 hour gas megaplex (been there done that and moved on from the kindness of a stranger). A place where if you drive into the night you are more likely than not to be accompanied by a moose running alongside your headlights for a time. I plan to take the pace slow spreading out the 24hr plus driving time over three days. There is no rush. Once I hit the homeland of Manitoba and settle in Winnipeg I will shortly begin my time at First Mennonite.
Chantal and Salem will fly out ahead of me on Sunday. And so for about four days I will be neither here nor there but in motion, in transit. Perhaps we cannot live in liminal space, perhaps it is impossible to hover between the cherubs wings, perhaps we will always be in motion towards on or the other, touching, so that we feel grounded though less holy. But for a few days I will travel from one wing to the other releasing my grasp in the left hand while taking a tentative step on my own before reaching out again with my right hand to steady my feet.
I have always loved traveling roads where you can turn off at any intersection and not have to wait for an exit that directs you to a pre-fab community of consumption. Perhaps I will offer some posts from the not-here and the not-there but hopefully not. If anything I hope to sit alone and sit in silence and then perhaps scrawl by hand on machined wood that has been thinned to sheets that allow for the possibility of enscription and collection. These sheets then could be burned or stored but both participate in the breaking down of the material order. They are under no illusion of being part of the digital that claims more permanence or at least presence but is infinitely more fragile.
It is interesting that this transitional space is where my mind is attracted to. I have not thought too much about ending my time here or beginning my time there. And perhaps the notion of liminality and transition is just an illusion. The problem though may be that our sense of permanence, of endings and beginnings, is the illusion. It is the endings and beginnings that mark our attachment and submission to structures of order, preservation, and stability. I long to live as though I was traveling between one wing and the other touching neither. Perhaps I will be able to enter into something which I will not leave even upon arriving.
Well, if you could not tell I am trying to romanticize a period of time that will be filled with poor hygiene and way to much coffee and pastries. But those spaces have also, in the past, been filled with sounds both harmonious and cacophonous as only the refrain holy, holy, holy can be uttered.