Dancing on the Edge: Embracing Life's Liminal Spaces

Lauri Stern
Jul 17
6 min read

Finding Balance in the Sacred Space

In the sacred space of the yoga studio, I often guide students into Warrior Three pose with an invitation to imagine standing at the edge of a cliff or building and look down and see what you may see. For some, the vision below reveals a calm, peaceful scene—perhaps a lush meadow, a deep canyon or peaceful lake. For others, the view brings chaos and fear—jagged rocks, rush-hour traffic on the streets below, or an endless void. The beauty of this practice lies not in controlling what we see, but in learning to breathe with whatever arises. We stand balanced on one leg, arms extended if possible, and as we learn to balance physically, we must also learn to balance mentally. Both physical and mental practices require time. But once we realize we can balance out both, we trust our bodies and our minds. We discover that we are not our thoughts. We are the witness, the one who stands steady amidst the internal weather.

This is the essence of living in liminal space—that threshold between what was and what will be, between the known and unknown. Life constantly presents us with these edges, these moments where we must choose between staying safe in familiar territory or taking a leap into uncertainty. Sometimes we create these thresholds ourselves, such as when we start new jobs, move to new cities, begin relationships, or end them. Other times, life hands them to us without warning: job loss, economic upheaval, political uncertainty, or changes in our closest relationships. The question is not whether we will encounter these spaces, but how we will navigate them.

As Rabindranath Tagore wisely observed, "You cannot cross the ocean by merely standing at the shore." Yet before we can make that crossing, we must first learn to dance on the edge, to find our balance in the uncertainty before we can discern when to leap.

The Wisdom of Ancient Stories

The ancient story of Hanuman offers profound wisdom for these moments. When the monkey deity needed to leap across the ocean to reach Lanka and serve Rama, he first had to overcome his doubt about his capabilities. The leap required not just physical strength, but unwavering faith—faith in his purpose, in his abilities, and in the divine support that would carry him across the vast expanse. In Sanskrit, this full split pose is called Hanumanasana, embodying the very essence of that faithful leap. But before Hanuman could make his historic jump, he had to first find his footing, gather his strength, and trust in something greater than his fear.

This is perhaps the most challenging aspect of liminal space—the not knowing, the suspension between possibilities. Our minds want to rush toward resolution, to know what comes next, to have solid ground beneath our feet. However, the liminal space challenges us to cultivate a different kind of strength: the ability to remain present in the face of uncertainty, to breathe with the unknown, and to trust our foundation even when everything else feels unstable.

The key lies in developing discernment—knowing when to stay in the balance and when to make the leap. Not every edge requires a jump. Sometimes the lesson is in learning to be comfortable with discomfort, to find stillness in the turbulence, and to trust that our inner foundation is solid, even when external circumstances shift. Fear becomes our teacher here, not our enemy. When we learn to embrace fear rather than flee from it, it transforms from a paralyzing force into a source of inspiration and clarity. Fear can sharpen our focus, heighten our awareness, and ultimately guide us toward right action.

Building Confidence Through Practice

How do we cultivate this balance? Consider Warrior Three pose as a metaphor for building confidence in uncertainty. How do we learn to balance on one leg? The same way we approach any overwhelming challenge—one small step at a time. Perhaps we start with simply lifting the opposite foot, and that's enough for a very long time. Then we begin to identify the muscles we may need and want to use and recruit in order to achieve balance in this way. When we attempt other poses, such as Tree Pose, we have a bit more confidence and faith in our ability to stand on one foot. When we incorporate the trust required to tip our body forward into Warrior Three, it may become scary all over again. However, if we consider it's the same pose in many ways—in that we are on one leg—then the fear is tempered. We learn to temper our fear by using what we know.

We attend school, for example, to acquire the skills we need to secure a job based on our knowledge. And although getting the job raises fear in other areas, such as getting along with our co-workers, or our ability to perform well at work, when we remember we have what it takes—the skills, the experience, whatever—to get hired, we may relax a bit over time.

Warrior Three is like that. We rely upon what we already know in order to find steadiness and ease within the pose. In yoga, we refer to this as muscle memory, which is similar to what is required to learn skills for competition, whether for fun or money, in a sport or hobby. And then once we embark on the task at hand, we may not only rely on what we already know and have learned to depend upon, we may also be more open to including a layer of faith and perhaps also some luck, but certainly rely upon our ability to recruit the muscles we've built in relaxing and appreciating being okay with the unknown and the liminal space ahead.

The Spiritual Dimension of Uncertainty

Learning to be okay with not being certain takes practice. Sitting in that space, the pause before the breath, the break in the action that allows us to decide how and when to take the next step or move. Learning to straddle the known and unknown is also essential for any spiritual practice. Spirituality asks us to dance with the ethers, our sense of whomever and whatever we call our G-d, Universe, and source energy. Our guides, angels, and loved ones are on the other side.

For those of us who do that dance—meditating, channeling, intuitively letting ourselves be guided, and working in fields that guide others—we are pretty comfortable with this space. However, even spiritual practitioners question their gifts. The connection we felt one day feels tenuous the next. The insights and downloads we received in rapid succession in the shower fade, so all we hear is water the next day.

The liminal space between our intuitive gifts is also another example of standing on the edge and peering over the side to see what we see. Do we see chaos and fear, or have we lost our gifts? Or do we see calm and grace in knowing they are there, perhaps a bit quieter before coming through again, even more loudly, strongly, or softly than before? Being open to what comes requires no less amount of muscle memory than the action required to step to the ledge of any precipice. We step forward, rely on what we know, close our eyes, and balance, perhaps even leap into the unknown because that's what the practice asks of us.

And So we Learn to Leap

The flight across any chasm is both exhilarating and terrifying. Like Hanuman suspended over the ocean, we must learn to trust not just in our ability to leap, but in our capacity to land safely on the other side. This trust is not blind faith, but rather a deep knowing that we have everything we need within us to navigate whatever comes. It's the understanding that even if we don't land exactly where we planned, we will land somewhere we can work with, somewhere we can continue to grow and serve.

Living in a liminal space is ultimately about learning to relax into the unknown, to find peace in the pause between one breath and the next, between one chapter of life and the next. It's about discovering that the edge itself can be a place of dance, of balance, of profound aliveness. When we stop trying to rush through these threshold moments and instead learn to inhabit them fully, we discover that they are not obstacles to overcome but sacred spaces where transformation becomes possible.

The invitation is always the same: breathe, balance, and trust. See what you see without becoming what you see. Know that you are not your thoughts, not your fears, not your circumstances. You are the one who stands steady, the one who chooses when to stay and when to leap, the one who dances with grace on the edge of the unknown. And when the time comes to jump, you will know. Your body will know. Your heart will know. And like Hanuman, you will find that the very act of leaping with faith creates the ground beneath your feet.

Namaste and thank you for reading,

Lauri

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