The Space Between // Shemot
And just like that, we’re in Exodus.
But actually, can we hang on for just a second? I… I’m not ready to be out of Genesis. I can’t be, “just like that.” I’m not quite ready.
I see Genesis as the origin story. Exodus is the great adventure. If we were talking in Hero’s Journey terms, we’re talking about the scene where we’re standing at the top of a hill, taking in the expansive views, hair whipping in the wind with brimming anticipation building. Before we leave the known for the unknown. Up until this point we’ve established main characters and core themes. Now we’re at the threshold of the unknown, where we’ll be challenged and discover and learn and transform and grow into the new, hero versions of ourselves.
It’s not an exact fit, but aspects ring true.
And… I’m not ready. I want to stand at the threshold a bit longer. Gaze ahead and daydream about the adventures the future holds. Gaze back at all that has led to this point. Here I am, in the space between. This space feels like the exact right place to be.
So, no. I will not be reading the Shemot portion this week in preparation for writing this piece. I won’t even read a synopsis. I’m not quite ready yet. And that feels more than okay to me. In fact, this liminal space I’m in, feels exactly right to me.
I’m ten days back to work from three months off on my second maternity leave in three years. If now isn’t a space between time, as I juggle between emails and preschool drop offs and scheduling meetings and playdates and dentist and doctor appointments and, and, and, and, AND doing it all one handed, because my other hand is holding my suckling nursling to my boob more often than not, then I really don’t know what is. (Also, this may be the best run on sentence I’ve ever written. Go me. Go run on sentences. Sorry, to my second and third grade teachers…)
I realize this may come across as complaining, or wearing busyness like a badge of honor. But I’m not. I’m truly not. The space between is a beautiful space. One of my favorite spaces, really. It is more than the title and lyrics to a killer Dave Matthews Band song. It is a space in and of itself. Even in the bible, actually.
***
Back in college my Hebrew cohort had a winter term class on the Song of Songs. Sexy, I know. If you are familiar with the Song of Songs, you’ll know I’m being completely serious when using sexy as a descriptor. My section to translate and recite was 5:2-5:7, if I’m remembering right.
One rainy afternoon my beloved, my then-boyfriend now-husband, walked me to class from his apartment. He didn’t have any classes the rest of the afternoon, but he insisted on walking with me at least back to the edge of campus, where the library is. Chivalry isn’t dead folks.
The main library on the University of Oregon campus is one of my favorite places. It’s beautiful. The top is lined with old gargoyles, impressive marble columns line the spacious entryway, and it is home to my most favorite grandiose spiral staircase. But I digress.
There is an iron and brick archway overgrown with ivy at the edge of campus that leads to a little side courtyard of the library and the main campus quad. The library gate, I call it.
We kissed before parting ways, me going to Hebrew class while he would go study in the library cafe. Without thinking I said “Bye. I lllllllike you.” I pulled away from the kiss, cheeks flushed. We hadn’t said the love word yet.
I held my bookbag to my chest, striding across the quad as fast as I could possibly walk, resisting the urge to break into a full on sprint. “Hey!” he called out. I turned around.
“I llllllike you too,” he shouted back with the widest grin I’d ever seen. I could have died a love-struck death as I floated to class.
To class, where I spent ten weeks obsessively studying the very short piece of the Song of Songs where her beloved is standing at the gate, wanting her to let him in.
It is only now, writing this, I’m realizing that for ten weeks I had the privilege of dwelling in and over analyzing the gate, the space between. At a time when I was very much in the space between in my own life, the beginning of a relationship that would become my marriage.
The threshold. The library gate. The rectangular stones on the ground of that library courtyard, which have uniform carvings of a leafy archway. The shape of the letter Chet in the Hebrew word Chai, which we both happened to have tattoos of before we had ever met, and which also happened to be the first thing I noticed about him. All of those things. Thresholds. Spaces between.
The following summer term I took a drawing class. Can you guess one of the locations I chose for an on-sight drawing? Hint: I turned that very drawing into the reference image for this week’s illustration.
***
Thanks for walking down memory lane with me as I stand here, not ready to step into Exodus. I’ve spent the bulk of this piece talking about thresholds. So let’s talk about threshold pace for a second.
In running, your threshold pace is a hard but sustainable effort for a certain length of time or distance, depending on your current fitness level. It’s the pace on the upper echelon of your aerobic capacity before anaerobic takes over. Think, pretty dang hard not sure how long you can hang on but dammit you're gonna try.
Capitalism loves people who function at threshold pace from the moment they open their eyes to the moment they close them.
I have to remind myself that nobody expects me to be running at my threshold pace right now. Nobody expects me to be more ready than I am to emerge as the new Becca. The mom of two who has her shit together Becca. No one expects me to come out the gate sprinting. I’m the one who gets frustrated sometimes when I can’t snap my fingers and be that girl. But those moments really feel like blips. I struggled with those feelings way more when the maternity leave ended with my firstborn. I’m proud of this new version of me that truly, in my bones, feels at peace, at home, and exactly right in this space between time.
This is the perfect time to have written the middle chunk of this essay. It’s my husband’s birthday next week, and that library gate moment is one of my most cherished memories with him. We are planning to celebrate his birthday with a fancy dinner date, omicron be damned. We’re boosted.
We fell in love at the ripe old age of twenty. We were just a couple of young guns with the hots for each other. Now, a dozen years later, we are complete partners in life and parents to a son and daughter. Wild.
Time can pause for a while, thank you very much. Genesis is clearly over. Exodus, our second act… It’s just beginning. So I’m giving myself at least til his birthday/our dinner date to stand here at the threshold and not move for a little longer. Actually, can I have a year? Please? In the context of our whole lives, what is one year?
Cool? Cool.
Shabbat Shalom, friend.
P.S. Shout out to my MIL for giving me her spare Costco bag of raisins because I totally spaced on picking that up when I went for my yeast resupply. Cinnamon Raisin Challah for the foreseeable future! As it should be. :)
P.P.S. On the seventh day, she rested. Six posts published, taking a break next week, see you the following week. :)