Liminality and Legacy

E155: FoW & Navigating In-Between Spaces

Aug 30, 2024

A Letter to My Tribe

Dear Member of Tribe Tilt

Six months ago, my mother passed away. I was raised in an era where our private and professional lives seldom intersected, and I often debate the value of sharing this part of my life journey in public. After all, is there a place for grief in a newsletter that talks about Raising Future Ready Leaders, about Climate, and about the Future of Work?

Members, aged 23 to 82, have shared how my stories inspired them to create cherished moments with their loved ones. We realize that time with our parents and grandparents—like time with toddlers—is finite. “The days are long, but the years are short.”

Navigating grief is also a valuable 21st-century skill. We mourn not just loved ones but transitions that mirror the shifts we face in work and society. We mourn stages of life: passing from student to job searcher to employed; from parenting to empty nest; from employed to retired. We mourn the loss of ancient forests; of glacial ice fields; of animal species. We mourn the passage of time: the last weekend of summer; when our children no longer sleep in our bed or suck their thumb, dropping them off at college; older techniques and technologies, the “way things used to be”.

Liminality—navigating the in-between spaces—has been a central pillar of my work since 2015. This mental-wellness-focus differentiates my work from others involved in Future of Work conversations. Just as grief guides us through loss, understanding transitions equips us to thrive in the Future of Work. Both demand resilience and adaptability, heirloom/EQ skills that prepare us to move forward.

“While grief may look like an expression of pain that serves no purpose, it is actually the soul’s acknowledgment of what we value. Grief is the honour we pay to that which is dear to us. And it is only through the connection to what we cherish that we can know how to move forward. In this way, grief is motion.”
– Toko-pa Turner “Belonging: Remembering Ourselves Home”

My current grief feels more like a hormonal teenager’s unpredictable journey—up one day, down the next, complete with surly moodiness and unexplainable body changes. Simple things like hugs, sunshine and movement make a significant difference. I’m learning to accept and not rush to move forward.

One more thing. If you’ve recently experienced a loss, I apologize if my previous sympathies fell short. I thought I understood; I now realize how much more I have yet to learn about this journey.

Take care of your loved ones, stay healthy, and I’ll see you next week.

Karena

What will your last words be?

My mother passed away six months ago. It has taken me six months to move myself back in time, out of the headspace of the shock of her final hour back to better memories of her last day, week and month with us. With me.

Today I am reliving that last journey with her in the ambulance. It was the last time she was able to have a full conversation, to speak in full sentences before they wheeled her into the ER, popped on a mask to provide her body with much-needed oxygen and we moved to deciphering her thoughts through the alarm in her eyes.

That ride is filled with panic and laughter in equal measure. I was desperately trying to get her to take big sips from a juice box to raise her glucose levels, as the paramedic tried to get a line into her arm while the ambulance bounced over the uneven village roads leading to the highway. But she couldn’t swallow. “Stop, Karena!” she chastised me. “I’m gagging. Listen to me. I’m still alert you know!” We all laughed in relief. She was going to make it! She had found her defiance and the strength in her voice again.

“Keep her awake,” the paramedic instructed me. So I held her hand, stared her in the eye, and we started singing. Those are the memories I reach for today. We walked back through time, singing songs she sang to me when I was a child, songs she sang with her sisters, songs her mother used to sing to her; lullabies in Portuguese, ditties in English, the Ave Maria in Latin, Mae de Deus Saibbini in Konkanni. The memory of those thirty minutes will last me my lifetime.

And her words “I’m still alert, you know!”

Many Ways to Leave Your Legacy

I was not born with an expiry date tattooed on my [… tuch]” Mike Funk said to his father Danny van Leeuwen, before passing away some years ago, aged 26. His comment has stuck with me. We cannot predict how long or short our time on Earth will be. Most regular humans will not get to script a Hollywood-perfect ending to the movie of our lives.

It got me thinking: How would I like my family and friends to remember me? There are many ways to leave a legacy. Will it be these newsletter essays or spidery hand-written letters inscribed in multi-coloured Muji pens? Will it be oral stories shared over the dinner table or family traditions at Christmas? Is it a favourite blouse or will it be a prayer like the one my mother shared with me?

But in the spirit of liminality, I think nothing surpasses being present—really present—while you are with those you love so they can make their own great memories. Hold their hand. Look them in the eye. Tell them stories. Sing songs. Remind them you will always be with them and love them.

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