The water within my own veins, within my vital organs, reached out to caress the spray and peat-stained tumult beneath me. My consciousness became one with the elemental power of this place; I felt both secure and insecure all at once, content and terrified simultaneously. Unable to articulate the experience or to rationalise it, I could only surrender to its power, to its ability to shatter my own perception of reality. This place of liminality had inadvertently caused my spirit to sing with what I was immersed within; rapture and bliss became the aftertaste of this remarkable, unplanned experience.
• • •
The Pagan arts are steeped in traditions filled with magic and mystery, and we as its priests are the walkers between the worlds. We are those who guard the wisdom and knowledge of our ancestors, who reach out into the world of men to inspire, and we do this by proxy of our connection to worlds and realities beyond ordinary human comprehension. But in order for this connection to exist in the first place, one must adequately be able to perceive the spiritual realms of existence, the dimensions beyond the vastness of the universe, and those beyond the minuteness of the atom. This task is not as difficult as people would initially imagine. There are many within the Pagan traditions who feel a certain degree of inadequacy when it comes to spiritual practise and experience. Many feel that if they do not experience cinematic, 3D vision quests, they are doing it wrong or cannot do it at all. Others feel that because they have never heard a god or a spirit speaking to them through their human ears, they are simply no good at it. People fail to understand that experience of the spiritual is subtle; the spiritual dimensions are accessed through the senses of the body in a manner that we are unused to in everyday reality. Liminality is the key that unlocks the doors onto experience and relationship with the subtle forces of the universe and our place within it.
Society teaches us to observe silently, to passively accept information from differing medias, which asserts a reality that is acceptable to modern society. We watch, we react in a passive manner; there is no assertiveness to the stream of teachings that we accept from the modern world. We are taught that concepts such as imagination are great if you fancy being a novelist, but that is as far as it goes—it isn’t really “real.” Society disempowers the tribe in this way, creating apathy and a sense of inadequacy; to some extent even elders of spiritual traditions can have the same effect with accounts of fantastical, cinematic spiritual encounters, leaving potential explorers feeling inferior. The spiritual dimensions are not difficult to access; one must begin gently, easing the consciousness into a practise that it has hitherto been unfamiliar with. Active imagination and physically or metaphorically being present within a liminal space increases the mind’s ability to shift awareness, resulting in connection to subtle spiritual dimensions.
Liminal states are surprisingly common in our everyday lives, yet we pay very little attention to their significance or symbology until we actually require them for attaining an altered state of consciousness. Achieving a state of conscious liminality is essential for the construction of ritual and for vision questing and journeying to the subtle realms of the spirit. When we consciously and with intent create a sacred space or venture out into nature to connect, the majority of us inadvertently choose either liminal times or liminal places in order to shift the awareness from the everyday humdrum of human existence. These choices may not be clear to the beginner; it is almost as if something within us is instinctively drawn to liminality, knowing that it will assist the process of alteration.
Liminal Times
Our ancestors have always acknowledged the liminality of time, some more than others. Noon or midday is considered liminal, for it is neither morning nor afternoon but a unique period of time that is transitory in nature. Midnight can be assumed to hold the same liminal quality. As the witching hour, it is the exact moment between days; it is neither Monday nor Tuesday, today nor tomorrow: it is betwixt. It is that mysterious border where time seems to cease, where the very fabric of space is transfixed within an unknown place, a place of mystery and magic. Nothing is definitive during these periods; they exist as a threshold, a place of potentiality. The festival of Calan Gaeaf (Samhain) is perceived as a liminal time, the very rules of ordinariness are suspended during this period; anything, it seems, is possible. It is neither autumn nor winter but rather a place where existence itself seems to hold its breath and wait for the coming darkness to devour the world in its blanket of reflection and potentiality. Akin to twilight, where it is neither day nor night, Samhain intrigues us; it sparks the imagination and allows it to sail to heights never before imagined. The veil between realities is said to be thin upon the night of Samhain; as it is during twilight, spirits and ghouls roam, freely able to pass from one reality to another, to infringe upon the land of the living. To this day we continue to dress as spirits and monsters, itself a liminal state, where the identity of the dresser is somehow suspended for that period between dusk and dawn. It is a common tradition in Britain that during Samhain, and indeed during certain rituals at other times of the year, men cross-dress as women. They adorn a liminal state where aesthetically they are asexual; they stand between gender identities and relish in the pageantry and drama of it.
Twilight is particularly liminal; the peculiar half-light can cause our imagination to soar from the confines of normality and challenge us to question what we sense or perceive. It is neither day nor night but somewhere in between; the eyes strain against the coming darkness. Hormones that induce sleep are released into the bloodstream, causing us to yawn and feel lethargic and sleepy. The primary human hormone that is directly affected by the liminality of twilight is melatonin. This hormone is released by the pineal gland into the bloodstream; it is an endocrine hormone that is inhibited by light but permitted by the arrival of darkness. A process known as DLMO (dim light melatonin onset) informs the body that the brain requires rest; this is dictated entirely by the approaching darkness of twilight. This liminal hormone affects every living creature on the planet and does so during liminal times. Melatonin is commonly referred to as the hormone of darkness. The natural world and this period of liminality have a profound effect on the mind and the body, causing us to react involuntarily to our surroundings. This strange time balanced between night and day is perfect for ritual and ceremony, for works of deep magic and transformation. The brain itself responds to this half-light, and as a consequence the mind is more willing to accept that all is not as it seems, allowing us the liberty to break free of our conformity to normality and descend into the sublime world.
When an individual dies, there is a liminal period between death and disposal, a time when the family grieves for their loss, trapped in a period of time that is unfamiliar, strange. Time itself seems suspended during this period, and we are separated from the mortal remains of the deceased for what may be several days leading up to the funeral. In times past, the entire community would have involved themselves in the honourable preparation of the deceased, helping the transition of the spirit from one state to another and also the grieving process of the bereaved. Understanding and immersing oneself in this liminal period assisted the bereaved and empowered them. In modern society the potentiality of this liminality has become anathema or somewhat taboo—we are denied involvement and are coerced into accepting the help of strangers to alleviate the burden. This lack of connection to liminality and the belief that we must relinquish control to strangers whose primary concerns are monetary has further distanced us from the importance of the liminal state; apathy and dishonour soon ensue.
The Pagan traditions motivate individuals to empower themselves and their tribes by making use of liminal periods and utilising the energies and potential that lies within them. They are an essential component of connection. In the tale at hand, Morda occupies a liminal time frame—he steps out of ordinary existence and resides in liminality for a year and a day. The extraordinary activity of kindling the fires of a magical cauldro
n removes him from the life he knew previously, placing him in a time and place between the worlds. Although he occupies this place full-time without recourse or respite, this does not imply that we must do the same. Partial liminality is all that is required to taste the mysteries; to become permanently liminal would be detrimental to our human experience.
Perhaps the most demonstrable periods of liminality of which we are all familiar with on a deeply personal level are the hypnagogic and hypnopompic states. These are the technical titles given to states of being that we find ourselves in up to four or maybe six times in any twenty-four-hour period, depending on lifestyle. The hypnagogic state is what is balanced between wakefulness and sleep, hypnopompic being its opposite, the state between sleep and wakefulness. They are liminal states, for they cannot be defined or classified as the common, widely understood states of wakefulness or sleep. They are the mysterious states that lie outside our common points of reference. A varied range of anomalous experiences may be encountered during these states, from vivid imagery, disembodied voices, and the sensation of floating or flying to the sudden, involuntary body jerks that can shock us back into the normal wakeful state. Experiences during these states will feel immensely real and have a nondreamlike quality to them. It is not uncommon for people to report apparitions, sensing the spirits of the dead, or to suffer sleep paralysis and the sensation that someone is either sitting on them or on their beds. Imagination is immensely effective during these states where imaginary scenes or landscapes take on a profoundly vivid quality; they may appear as solid and as real as the wakeful world one has left behind. Our perception of time and place is greatly altered, and although we may appear to have a degree of awareness and may be convinced that we are not actually asleep, a significant and surprising amount of time may well pass by.
No doubt many of you reading these words will have experienced dozing off on the sofa, where the seemingly annoying mental baggage of everyday life stops for a while, and you drift into a pleasant state of imagination and imagery, of memories and comfort—until an involuntary jerk or a text message on your mobile phone shatters the blissful state and you awake, heart pounding, to find an hour and a half has passed.
During these peculiar states of mind, the subconscious is more readily accessible and easily influenced; words or suggestions given to someone in this fragile state will sink deep into the mind and remain there. We can learn in this state; it is a common practise for those learning a new language to listen to recordings via headphones as they fall slowly into sleep. Whilst in the hypnagogic state, the mind is more capable of absorbing information without the irrational aspect of the mind interfering and perhaps denting our confidence or ability to learn new material. As Pagans we are not unfamiliar with these states and, in fact, may consciously induce them. Think of the last time you were in ritual—not the celebratory ritual of tribal gatherings but your own deep rituals of connection and journeying. Or recall an episode where you were led, perhaps as part of a group, into the imagination of guided meditation. You will recall that a similar state is achieved to those described above; in fact, any trancelike state begins by shifting brain frequency from the normal, rapid irregular waves of high frequency to a slower frequency, the hypnagogic state. As we descend into trance, the brain’s frequency decreases to around 8–12 Hz; this state may also be referred to as the alpha state. The body slows, muscle tone relaxes, yet we are acutely aware of our surroundings, even if our temporal awareness is compromised. It is here where we begin to see the images narrated to us during a guided meditation; it is here where we reach the landscape we have preprogrammed our subconscious to encounter on a journey to the otherworld. They are as real as the book you are holding in your hands. As we descend further into our vision, into our encounter with the subtle realms of the inner senses, they become more defined—they take on a life of their own and are not necessarily influenced by our own imagination—and we begin to interact with spontaneous anomalous stimuli. This state is known as theta activity, where the frequency of the brain has decreased even further than in the alpha state—it has now reached the depths of 4–7 Hz, yet we are not asleep. What we have done is consciously induced liminality in our own body, and by doing so—and immersing ourselves in the experience—we retain a certain control over posture and other things, not allowing ourselves to fall fully asleep.
It is here where we meet our gods and the archetypes of our tribes and ancestors; it is here where we access the otherworld and the inner realms of spirit. We do it each and every day, but we do it without consciously utilising its power, without even realising that we can and are able to manipulate this liminal time to our own spiritual advancements. I have heard so many people claim that they have never seen the otherworld, never encountered the spirits of place or the archetypes of our ancestors. I do not doubt them, but I firmly believe that their inability to understand common human states as being passageways or conduits to the spiritual realms is simply because they have not been taught how to do it. From my own experience of these states and their ability to act as keys to doors that may otherwise remain locked, I firmly believe that anyone can and is able to achieve these states and benefit from them. When we consciously fall into these states of liminality, it is surprising the amount of common themes that result from each individual’s experience—it is almost as if the world within these states contains the whole of human experience from the beginning of time combined with the common experience of the universe as it learns about itself.
The priests and teachers of the Pagan traditions occupy a liminal space; those who have encountered and experienced the subtle realms of the spirit are obliged to share that wisdom with their communities, inspiring them to also reach these states and further develop their spirituality. But even here there is danger, for although liminality is essential for accessing the inner senses, we can also become trapped within it and become permanently liminal, a state where we can no longer function normally within this world. We become too otherworldly, too liminal for the majority of people to know what to do with us or how to interact with us. Those trapped in permanent liminality lose their humanity and their ability to empathise with the world around them and with those within their tribes. They eventually become outcasts, and in ancient times they would have been banished to the outskirts of the village. Modern secular society may identify hippies, gypsies, and Travellers as those who are living on the edge of society, outcasts; in other words, they have been made permanently liminal. Within the priesthood, permanent liminality is a dangerous state that should be avoided at all costs. An effective priest must find a point of balance; she must be able to adequately understand and utilise liminality without becoming trapped within it. Being trapped between and betwixt isolates us from our kin; we begin to lose the fabric of our humanity and will ultimately become lost in the darkness of between-ness. Forever trapped in liminality, Morda teaches us the importance of this sacred state and also acts as a warning beacon. The spiritual landscape can be unfamiliar and treacherous to those who step forth unprepared. Morda and his companions serve to guide us; they are akin to consulting a map prior to a hike: they teach, prepare, and guide.
Liminal Places
We are all familiar with places that have an air of mystery to them or a magical quality that is difficult to define or articulate. Our culture is full of references to places that are liminal, imbued with an ancestral knowing that they are somewhat different. In traditional Celtic lore and mythology, liminal places are features in the landscape that provide access to the subtle realms of being, to the hidden worlds that lie interwoven with our own. Tales abound of dark, dappled groves where the adventurer steps into the unfamiliar territory of otherworldly beings—of fairy mounds and cairns that act as gateways or doors to other dimensions. These places of liminality are embedded in our racial consciousness; they are a part of who we are, and remarkably we continue not only to be drawn to such places but to have an appreciation of their
value.
Places that act as thresholds between elements—such as bridges, neither in water nor on land, neither in air but somehow transfixed between the worlds—carry us to places betwixt and between. These places of liminality are more than able to transport us deep into the subtle dimensions of the infinite mind. They have a peculiar “feel” to them; some may feel downright dangerous or threatening, such as cliff tops where the sylphs of air tempt us to leap into nothingness, where we sense the abode of the spiritual realms more clearly than in mundane localities built by man.
Perhaps one of the most significant of liminal places that has waned in power over recent decades is the between-ness of the crossroads. The place where two roads meet and intersect has always held great power to our ancestors; it was believed that the ancient druids would gather at crossroads during the eve of Samhain to listen to the voices of the dead. Altars were erected to various deities, especially during Roman times and their feast of Ludi Compitalia, which was held between the fifth and fifteenth of January. Hecate, the great goddess of the witches, was believed to be the goddess of crossroads, and altars would be erected at them in her honour. Perhaps it is not surprising that the gibbet, or gallows, would be erected at a crossroads for the public execution of criminals, whose bodies would then be interred at the same location. They were reputedly places of power where witches and gypsies would gather to cast spells and conjure. Some of the more unfortunate among them might also be strung up at the same spot!
From the Cauldron Born Page 14