Trump touches us where we long to be touched

Did that title make you a little bit nauseous? I know I had a hard time writing it. And then sharing it…

But every now and then I think, maybe I will vote for Trump.

Isn’t that crazy?

I wonder about the impulse. I find the man disgusting, and I often consider what I’ll do if he is elected. (Options so far: leave the country, protest, get involved in politics and run for office, or strangle him. Only kidding—I would never run for office.)

So many Americans support Trump, and I can’t imagine that every single one of them is a total idiot. (Though it is tempting.) So what is it?

While I watched the PBS NewsHour a few nights ago, something struck me: people like Trump because he’s different.

Before you say “well, duh,” hear me out.

There is this thing called sensitization. Put simply, sensitization is the process of making something more sensitive. Desensitization, perhaps obviously, is the process of making something less sensitive.

I first studied sensitization in a class on the biology of the brain. The teacher used the example of touch. Imagine someone touching your arm. If they touched your arm in the same spot every single time, day by day, the spot would become less sensitive. The cells would desensitize and you would cease to experience as much sensation. Conversely, if someone touched your arm in that spot only on occasion, or if they touched a spot on your arm that was seldom touched, you would experience more sensation. Your cells would sensitize.

Our cells sensitize and desensitize. Stimulation or lack of stimulation causes it.

I think we are politically desensitized. I know I am. My cells are overstimulated, and I no longer receive pleasure from someone touching me in my political places. Democrats and Republicans alike keep running their fingers along the same political line, and I’ve simply stopped feeling.

Trump touches a part of people’s arms that hasn’t been touched for a long time. He’s straight forward. He’s brutally honest about how he feels. He says things that most people edit or keep hidden. He’s sensitizing our desensitized parts, and I think that feels good for people. Even if people don’t like him, they enjoy the experience of actually feeling something.

I long for a new conversation in politics. I long for change. I long for truly new ideas and new actions. I long to feel something again, and I’ve grown numb to our political discourse.

And so I sometimes think, maybe I will vote for Trump.

But don’t worry, I won’t.

In love and liminality,

Annie Rose

Living a Liminal Life is Not for Suckers

When I was little, I used to rearrange my room on a regular basis. I never replaced old furniture or décor with new stuff—I simply put the head of my bed against a new wall, my dresser alongside a different door, my pictures and posters in new places.

I distinctly remember going to sleep feeling incredibly uncomfortable each time I did so. I felt creeped-out and weird, my brain thrown off by getting into bed from a new direction, heading toward my desk from a different angle, and looking for posters in places they no longer were.

Then, after a few days, comfort would replace discomfort, and my “new” room would become my old room. My brain would relax, and my entire being would relax into a space of normalcy. Each of those times I reorganized my room, I pushed myself into a liminal space, even if only for a few days.

The Mirriam-Webster dictionary defines “liminal” as something that is “of or relating to a sensory threshold” or “barely perceptible”. Anthropologists define “liminality” as the quality of ambiguity or disorientation that occurs in the middle stage of rituals, when participants no longer hold their pre-ritual status but have not yet begun the transition to the status they will hold when the ritual is complete.

In all of our lives, we find ourselves in liminal spaces, whether we know it or not. We graduate from college and start working full time. We end one relationship and become single or start a new one. Someone we know dies. We fail at something at which we knew we’d succeed. We learn of a new word, idea, or theory and we see ourselves, others, and our world in new ways. We develop a new inner or emotional capacity, and we see our circumstances through new filters. We lose our filters. We make a new friend and develop new ideas of what it means to be connected. We get married. We get divorced. We make and deliver a baby. We become a husband, a wife, a sister, a mother, a father, a failure, or a success. We fall in love. We no longer know who we are. We become something we weren’t before, but we’re still not who we’re going to be.

Life constantly throws us into the liminal space. Sometimes we stay there for minutes; other times for hours, days, weeks, months, or even years. The amount of time we spend there is often out of our control or is, many times, indicative of our willingness and capacity to stay in the unknown.

Last year, I walked El Camino de Santiago, a pilgrimage across Spain. I walked 520 miles in 30 days. I started my journey by leaving my husband, friends, family, job, city, and material possessions behind (with the exception of the fourteen pounds of clothes and gear I carried on my back). I flew to Madrid, took a bus to north-eastern Spain, and started to walk.

What followed was a constant entering and exiting of the liminal space. Flight to Madrid by myself? Unfamiliar. Flight to another country? Familiar. Bus by myself to a new-to-me part of Spain? Unfamiliar. Bus in a foreign country? Familiar. Alberque (hostal) in new city? Totally unfamiliar. Alberque in Spain on El Camino? Familiar. (I walked another route of El Camino ten years earlier.)

Yet despite some familiar experiences, the entire journey took place in the liminal space to varying degrees of intensity. It blew my mind and rocked my familiar world.

Living in the liminal space, let’s be clear, is not for suckers. It’s for the daring. It’s for people who live life fully, not because doing so is the trend, but because, when they look at it, there are no other options.

Living a liminal life is for the transformers; the movers and shakers; the revolutionaries; the adventurous. It’s for the experiencers. The lovers. The people who engage in the washing machine of life, intentionally or not, and keep on living despite of, and in service to, constant challenge, heartbreak, transition, and confusion.

Living in the liminal space is for people who grow, expand, explore, and look at the world with curious eyes. It’s for people who live life, witnessing and engaging in life’s action and maneuvering, as best they can, through road blocks, barriers, and detours.

I happen to believe that living a liminal life is for everyone. Said another way, I believe it’s something that everyone just does. If you’ve ever gone to an unfamiliar place, changed your relationship status, moved to a new house, changed jobs, changed schools, changed friends, tried something new, traveled to another city, country, or state, read a book that changed your life, had an experience—good or bad—that changed your life, or otherwise found yourself in a state of change, transition, or newness, you’ve lived—no matter how long—in a liminal space.

The liminal space is responsible, in our selves, our families, our communities, and our world—for change. For transformation! For evolution! For revolution! It knocks down structures and rearranges life. It’s for you. For me. For all of us.

This blog is about adventures in liminal living. I hope you’ll join me in an exploration!

With love and liminality,

Annie Rose Stathes