Beginnings, Thresholds, Ticket Counters
On feeling welcome in liminal spaces
Hello friend,
I’ve been thinking about beginnings. Autumn’s arrival is in the air, and I’m entering a new (hopefully final) academic year in my PhD program. There’s a palpable feeling of freshness and possibility.
What happens in that moment when we cross the border into something new?
I was just in Prague for the International Council of Museums (ICOM) conference. On my last day in town, I wanted to have another look at a strangely beautiful medieval tree painting I had seen in a museum earlier that week.
But on this visit, the entrance to the museum was through a different door, and there didn’t seem to be anyone at the ticket counter. Had my post-conference exhaustion stopped me from getting the opening hours right? Finally, an employee came to help me, glancing at my ICOM card while continuing her conversation with a colleague, which, though I don’t speak Czech, seemed to be about managing the group of well-dressed people congregating in lobby. She handed me a ticket and then pointed me to a wall of lockers, telling me to check my purse before going into the galleries.
Now, there was nothing objectively unwelcoming about this interaction. But let me tell you the white hot shame that washed over me. I myself once had the job of telling tourists to check their overly large bags before entering a museum, and in this moment I felt signaled out as an outsider, as someone who didn’t know the rules, as ridiculous. I wondered if I should just head back to my hotel and finish packing.
You might say I was, literally and figuratively, carrying some baggage with me.
Beginnings mark the moment of contact with experience. Where what we are carrying meets where we are going.
Museum researchers know that (to use some very technical museological terms) the visitor’s state ‘BEFORE THE VISIT’ has a big impact on the ‘DURING’. We don’t enter museum spaces as blank slates. No, of course not, we bring our identity, our history, our knowledge, our expectations, our bagage culturel (the French term for ‘cultural baggage’, our familiarity with culture).
We also bring our happy mood from a promising date the night before, our memory of being bored in the museum as a child, our buzz from the espresso that was a little too strong, (and maybe, like me) our vulnerability hangovers from a week of new professional interactions.
And all of that comes into contact with the specificity of a new experience. In museums, the first step through the front door can set the tone for a visitor’s experience in the galleries (there is literally a whole book on museum thresholds). So many factors can impact this liminal moment: the ease of knowing where to go in the space, the ticket prices, the wording and languages on the signs, the attitudes of the employees, the levels of accessibility accounted for in the design…
As a museum visitor, all these factors twist together into a form of communication, helping you assess:
What is waiting for me inside? Can I be my full self here? How do I want to engage?
Am I welcome in this space?
This point of collision between internal state and external offering can give us some honest insights into what’s going on within us, under the surface. What does our reaction to what we are encountering tell us about what we need, what we desire?
Beginnings are invitations to be aware of what’s going on inside and out — and be intentional with our next step.
In my case, in that museum in Prague, my intense reaction to a perfectly respectful interaction let me know that I needed some tenderness. As I did the walk of shame over to the lockers to check my bag, the woman at the counter gave me the warmest smile, like we were in on a joke together. I put my (admittedly large) purse on the counter, trying to dig out my phone and wallet, and she said to me so warmly, “Take your time, there is no rush.” I took a deep breath and I really let myself hear that. She cracked up with delight when I pulled out an earnest, awkward “Děkuji” to thank her.
That moment of connection, and my desire to take another long look at that curious tree painting, were enough to get me back on the rails. I took the locker key and gave myself permission to go straight to the painting without looking at anything else.
That was my next right step.
Sometimes beginnings are rough but redeemable.
Sometimes beginnings are smooth like silk. Sometimes what we’re carrying with us aligns with what we meet and it’s a long string of yes yes yes. Earlier that week, when I had visited that same museum for the first time, it was at night, Museum Night, when the museums of Prague were open until midnight for conference attendees. I walked through the old town at twilight to get there. The front door was open wide, and I was ushered upstairs by someone who saw my conference badge and knew I belonged. The dark stairs were obviously not lit by candlelight, but it kind of felt like they were, you know? I crossed the threshold of the exhibition behind a small group of Parisian curators. Magical.
And sometimes beginnings reveal the toxicity of the environment. They let us know that we need to turn around and leave immediately. We have the right to reject spaces that cause harm to ourselves and others.
But here’s the crux of it all:
We belong.
Just that week, in a conference center across town, the international museum community voted on the new official definition for what makes a museum. This definition included the words inclusive and accessible and diversity and even enjoyment. Our fundamental belonging in these spaces is not up for debate.
So if you do not feel welcome, there is nothing wrong with you. The problem is on an institutional level.
And I have to believe the same is true of our lives.
For me today, in this Quebec September, teetering on the edge of a pivotal academic year, I feel myself clenching. There is so much to be done - tedious and glorious and everyday - and I still am carrying the bodily memory of last spring’s exhaustion.
So, as I feel the turbulence of my BEFORE meeting my DURING, I am actively reminding myself that I belong here and in all that awaits me. That I get to set my own pace. That there are parts of this experience that will delight me. That there are people to point me in the right direction when I get lost. That all I have to figure out is the step in front of me.
Whether you’re beginning a museum visit, a journey of a thousand miles, or a Saturday morning, you don’t have to know where the experience will take you.
Take this moment of beginning as an invitation to become aware of what you need as you enter this new thing. Let that awareness guide you to your next right step.
Because, my friend, you belong here.
Some News
I’ll be leading my first workshop this weekend! It will be in-person (and in-forest), using a contemplative practice that encourages deep looking, both inward and outward, guided by the questions: What do I need, right now? Where can I find it, right here?
✨ If you would be interested in an online workshop with me (think: playing with new ways of paying attention to everyday life), get on the waitlist to hear about new offerings ✨
Join me on October 5 for a conversation about seeking beauty in the everyday, The Art We Live With, organized by the Collegium Institute. The event is free, virtual, and you can register below:
Wishing you courage and welcome in your new beginnings,
"There's no rush." swoon!