In my work as a palliative care chaplain, our team supports patients and families in inhabiting the space where their worst days and biggest fears intersect with their greatest hopes and connections. And as a daughter who recently stood at my father’s deathbed, I too dwell in the trenches of that liminality, where in the same moment there can be tears and laughter, and where impossibly, the past, present, and future coexist.
One method of support our team uses is Narrative Medicine, an interdisciplinary field that uses storytelling, art and literature to enhance patient and family care. We all have a story to share, especially around illness. Becoming better at listening for that story has the power to improve quality of life and outcomes for patients, families and staff. In a recent writing workshop, I wrote the poem below entitled “Liminality.” I share it with you, especially at this time of year, as a prayer from my heart.
As Jews, we constantly straddle joy and mourning. From a corner left unpainted in a new home, to a glass broken under a chuppah, to the words of our daily Amidah, we never forget what we have lost and how much we miss it.
As Jews, we constantly straddle joy and mourning. From a corner left unpainted in a new home, to a glass broken under a chuppah, to the words of our daily Amidah, we never forget what we have lost and how much we miss it. On Tisha B’Av, we allow our awareness of that which is broken to all but consume us. But it does not. How? We tell our communal narrative of suffering, and through it we cry out to God to help us repair and return, in whatever time we have on this earth. Ever aware of our mortality, we connect memory with the hope for what one day can be.
Liminality
In a moment, maybe we will be together
Apart but anticipating reunion
The separation is real and immutable
And the hope lingers, allowing for an opening someone else might miss
What does it mean to truly be together?
With man and with God?
With time and with sound?
With ourselves even when we are alone
We are but a breath, and as our lungs fill to the point of capacity, we know that a fleeting shadow can be infinite
Labored breathing, through pressurized oxygen in the walls
Tethered and yearning to be free
Alone but never alone
Alissa Thomas-Newborn is a chaplain at New York-Presbyterian Columbia University Irving Medical Center.
