immigration stamp at Sydney airport

In anthropology 101 I loved learning about liminal spaces. Liminal means in-between-ness. Times, places, and events can all be liminal. The beach is a liminal place because it’s neither land nor water (so you’re allowed to walk around in your underwear, essentially). Mardi Gras and Carnaval are liminal times; normal rules of society are suspended. April Fools Day, Halloween, Disneyland, all are liminal.

Airports are totally liminal. I feel like the whole experience of travel is liminal. You’re somewhere, but from somewhere else. You’re constantly on some sort of threshold between what was and what will be. Don’t even get me started on the International Date Line, which still confounds me.

It was a long flight. I’m still upside-down. (Although I did get two airplane seats to myself—travelers’ jackpot!)

But here’s something that made me feel right-side up just a few minutes ago—surprise notes hidden in my luggage from Luke and Janine’s girls.

secret notes found in luggage

By the way, Lily’s “LYMI” stands for “love you, mean it.” Nina says she hopes I see lots of animals. Me too. From the sun-dappled porch at my inn I’m hearing a kookaburra, and the innkeeper told me that tonight I’d likely see possums (the ones here are a bit more beloved than the ones in the U.S.).

Tomorrow morning I’m off to Sleepy Burrows Wombat Sanctuary, where I left a piece of my heart last year. Until the sun sets tonight, I’m going to try to stand steady at the threshold between time zones, between awake and asleep.

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