Posted on by Michael J. Cunningham

After Easter …

An Easter Reflection on Living in Liminal Space

There is a day in the Christian calendar that nobody quite knows what to do with.

Not Good Friday, with its grief and its grandeur. Not Easter Sunday, with its flowers and its alleluias. I mean the day in between. Holy Saturday. The day the stone is sealed, the disciples are scattered, and the story appears — by every visible measure — to have ended badly.

Most of us skip it. We move from the cross straight to the resurrection, from the darkness straight to the light, and in doing so we miss the one day in the entire liturgical year that tells the truth about what most of our spiritual lives actually feel like most of the time.

We live in the liminal.

There is a word for the in-between space. Liminal — from the Latin limen, threshold. The doorway where you are neither inside nor outside. Not the old room and not the new one. The stretch of ground where what was has ended and what will be has not yet arrived.

We tend to visit the liminal zone occasionally and then try to leave. But the truth is that most of our interior life is conducted there. Not in the peaks of consolation or the depths of crisis, but in the long, undramatic stretches in between — the ordinary seasons that carry no particular name, that do not make for dramatic testimony, that simply continue.

You know this territory. It is when prayer has become routine, the words still said, but the warmth somehow gone out of them. The faith that persists but no longer surprises. The sense that God was closer once; in a retreat, a conversation, a moment at Mass that you have never quite been able to recreate … and that you have been quietly looking for the door back ever since.

It is Wednesday morning when nothing has broken, but nothing sings, either. The year when the person you were before a loss did not entirely return afterward. The stretch of life when you show up and do the right things and still feel, somewhere underneath, like you are waiting for something you cannot name.

This is not spiritual failure. This is spiritual life. The mystics did not write their great works in the high moments. They wrote them from exactly here.

The disciples on that first Holy Saturday did not know they were in a liminal space. They only knew they were in a disaster. What looked, from inside the room, like abandonment was — from outside — the longest breath before the dawn.

This is always the problem with liminal space. It does not announce itself as temporary. It presents itself as permanent. The sealed stone does not say three days — it simply says sealed. The locked room does not say until Pentecost — it simply says locked.

And so, we do what frightened people do in locked rooms. We try to manage the uncertainty. We fill the silence with noise, the emptiness with activity, the waiting with plans. We become very busy maintaining the house from the outside because we cannot bear what it feels like on the inside.

The contemplative tradition has a gentler name for what we are doing. It calls it the mirror. The mirror shows what we present — the managed version, the composed face, the spiritual persona that has learned to look well in the light. Most of us have been practicing this management for so long that we have forgotten we are doing it.

But God, as I have said before, does not use a mirror. God has always been the MRI.

An MRI does not see your presentation. It sees what is structuring everything from the inside — what has always been there, what arrived later, what healed and what still carries its fracture. You cannot manage your way past an MRI. You are already living inside it. And the liminal space, the in-between, the Holy Saturday of the spirit, has a way of dissolving the mirror altogether. Strip away the activity and the consolations and the sense of spiritual progress, and what remains is the actual ground.

The mystic Miester Eckert called it the Seelengrund — the ground of the soul. The place beneath all experience of God, beneath feeling and warmth and spiritual momentum, where God dwells not as a sensation but as a fact. A fact that does not fluctuate. A presence that does not require our performance in order to persist.

This is what the liminal is for. It is not punishment. It is not evidence that something has gone wrong with your faith. It is the condition in which we discover — slowly, often reluctantly — how deep the roots actually go. What remains when the feeling goes away. What we are made of when there is nothing left to manage.

We do not have what the first disciples had — the physical presence of Jesus, the sound of a specific voice answering a specific question. We live on the other side of the resurrection and the ascension. The physical form is gone.

But what we have is not a consolation prize. It is the fullness of what was promised.

We have creation — his first and still-speaking language. Every morning that arrives without our asking. Every face that carries, even unknowingly, the trace of the one in whose image it was made. We have Scripture — not a closed archive but a living word with the capacity to find us precisely in the places where we are most stuck. We have the spiritual footprint of a life fully inhabited, left in us and between us — every honest encounter between two human beings exchanges something of it. And we have love, which is not a feeling to be cultivated but a substance. The Great Commandment does not give us an emotion. It gives us a map for every day — bright and dark, liminal and luminous alike.

The burning bush was not special because it burned. It was special because Moses turned aside to look. That turning aside — that small act of noticing in the middle of an ordinary working day — is what keeps us present to God in the in-between. Not the dramatic encounter. The willingness to look at what is already there.

Holy Saturday earns its place in the calendar precisely because most of us cannot say honestly that we live in Good Friday or Easter Sunday. We live in the day between. We live with unanswered questions, with faith that persists but does not dazzle, with the ordinary texture of a life being lived in the presence of a God we cannot always feel.

The resurrection will not be the arrival of something that was absent.

It will be the revelation of what was always present.

The seed in the ground does not know it is becoming something. It simply stays with what is. It lets the dark do what the dark does. And what the disciples thought was an ending was, in the grammar of God, a gestation.

If you are in the in-between this Easter — if the alleluias feel a little far away, if the dry season has lasted longer than you thought it would — let me suggest that you are not outside the story.

You are in the most honest chapter of it.

Stay a little longer here. The ground holds. The seed is doing what seeds do. And God, who does not use a mirror, has never needed your performance to remain.

What is the liminal season you are in right now? What would it mean to stop managing it — and simply let the ground hold you?

 

Reflection and image copyright 2025 Michael J. Cunningham

 

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The First Life Skill: An Easter Reflection

The First Life Skill

An Easter Reflection

I was walking my dog Bella this morning when three runners came towards us on the path — a life coach and what looked like a young married couple working hard to keep up with him. I stepped aside to let them pass, and caught only a fragment of what the coach was saying, mid-sentence, to his clients:

“…meditation should be the first life skill you learn. It’s as important as reading or writing.”

The couple sounded like they needed to breathe more than anything else at that moment as they struggled to keep up with the coach. They were around the bend before I could hear more. But the fragment stayed with me for the rest of the walk, which is, of course, a form of meditation in itself.

Easter has something to say about this.

I kept turning that phrase over — the first life skill — because the coach wasn’t wrong. What changes when you learn to be genuinely present — before you react, before you perform, before you start managing the day — is not one area of your life. It is the whole thing.

But there was something about the morning itself that had been doing the teaching before the coach opened his mouth.

The light was already on the hills. My dog was doing what dogs do — completely in the moment, no argument with it. Three people running together on an ordinary Friday morning, already alive to something. And the whole scene had a quality I can only describe as already full.

That is what Easter keeps trying to say to me, and I keep needing to hear it differently.

The resurrection doesn’t introduce God to the world. It tears the veil on what was always here — patient in the ordinary, present in the morning light, carried in the fragment of a sentence caught on a path between one bend and the next.

Meister Eckhart called it the Seelengrund — the ground of the soul. The place beneath all the fluctuating — the good seasons of prayer and the dry stretches, the days when God feels close and the longer ones when God seems to have left the building entirely. Beneath all of it, something holds. Not as feeling. As fact.

I have spent enough time in the dry stretches to have tested this. And what I found — not dramatically, more like a slow recognition — is that the mystics were right about this one thing: you cannot turn God off. Not by your doubt. Not by your distraction. Not by the stone at the door.

The only real question — the one Easter puts back on the table every year — is whether I am present to what is already present to me.

What about you? Where have you stopped looking — quietly assuming there is nothing there?

That question, honestly held, is itself a practice.

It is, in fact, the beginning of what I’ve come to call Sacred Noticing — not a technique you apply to your life from the outside, but the moment you realize your life has been unfolding on sacred ground all along.

The morning dog walk. The three runners. The fragment overheard between one bend and the next. Any of these, met with a little waking, becomes the place where the divine is already present and already speaking.

The resurrection doesn’t introduce that.

It just keeps confirming it.

Whatever this Easter holds for you — the alleluias, the quiet uncertainty, or the honest in-between that many of us actually inhabit — the invitation is the same.

The divine is not elsewhere.

It is here. In this day. In this life. In the specific, irreplaceable way that Love has chosen to be present in you.

 

Notice that.

That is, perhaps, the first life skill.

“The desire for belonging is, at its ground, the soul’s memory of the Garden’s chemistry.”

 

Michael J. Cunningham OFS is a Franciscan secular, writer, and retreat director. This reflection is part of the SpiritualBreak.com contemplative series.

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The Anatomy of a Bad Decision

A Spiritual Break Reflection

 

Most of us have made a decision we knew, somewhere inside us, was wrong before we made it.

Not wrong in the abstract. Wrong in the specific; this choice, this moment, this particular departure from the person we are trying to become. And yet we made it anyway. Quickly, often. With a kind of relief that comes not from wisdom but from the exhaustion of holding the tension any longer.

This is worth examining. Not to assign blame — the self is not on trial here — but because the anatomy of a bad decision reveals something true about the territory Sacred Noticing is meant to inhabit.

— ✦ —

What Sacred Noticing Actually Does

The Practice of Sacred Noticing rests on a deceptively simple rhythm: Notice. Pause. Respond.

But the simplicity is not naivety. Each movement carries weight.

To Notice is to bring contemplative attention to what is actually present — not what you expected, not what you hoped for, not what your accumulated history tells you must be there. To see the actual situation rather than the version your nervous system has already prepared a response for.

To Pause is to create the space that makes wisdom possible. The Three-Breath Method interrupts the amygdala’s reactive momentum, grounds you in the actual present, and opens access to the prefrontal cortex where integrated judgment lives. This is not technique layered over spirituality. It is the spiritual act — the ancient contemplative discipline of refusing to let urgency dictate reality.

To Respond is to act from what has been revealed in the pause rather than from what the reactive self had already decided before the pause began.

Together, these three movements form what might be called a spiritual footprint — the accumulated quality of presence you leave in every encounter, conscious and intentional rather than leaked and reactive. Every interaction leaves a trace. Sacred Noticing makes that trace an act of care rather than an accident of circumstance.

This is the practice in its health. Now consider what happens in its absence.

— ✦ —

The Anatomy of What We Skip

When we bypass the practice — and we do, regularly — there is usually a reason. Not a good reason. But a real one.

The most common is urgency. Real or constructed, the sense that this must be decided now collapses the space between stimulus and response into something too narrow for wisdom to enter. We mistake velocity for competence. We confuse acting quickly with acting well. The decision is made before the question has been properly formed.

The second is discomfort. Holding a genuine question open — truly open, without the false resolution of a premature answer — requires tolerating uncertainty. And uncertainty, for most of us, carries a physical signature: the tight chest, the restless attention, the mild but persistent anxiety of not-yet-knowing. The bad decision is often simply the decision that ends the discomfort. Not the right answer. The answer that makes the tension stop.

The third is social pressure — subtler than it appears. We want to be seen as decisive. As capable. As people who do not need more time than the room seems to think is appropriate. The pause that Sacred Noticing requires can feel, in these moments, like weakness rather than wisdom. And so we skip it. We offer the expected response, the reactive one, the one that costs the least in the currency of others’ approval — and costs considerably more in the currency of our actual integrity.

Research in decision science calls these cognitive shortcuts — heuristics that serve well enough in familiar territory but fail precisely when the stakes are highest. Daniel Kahneman’s distinction between System 1 and System 2 thinking maps with uncomfortable accuracy onto what the contemplative tradition has always known: the reactive self and the reflective self operate by different rules, and the reactive self nearly always moves first.

— ✦ —

What Motivates Us to Simply Make a Decision

There is a particular quality to the moment just before a bad decision. It does not usually feel like a mistake in progress. It feels like relief.

The pressure has been building. The competing claims — on your attention, your loyalty, your time, your sense of who you are — have been accumulating. And somewhere in the midst of this accumulation, the mind begins to prioritize resolution over truth. Ending the question becomes more important than answering it well.

This is what I call decision fatigue in spiritual form. It is not simply tiredness, though exhaustion is often a factor. It is the deeper weariness that comes from sustained interior tension — from holding two real claims, two genuine possibilities, two versions of who you might be, in unresolved relationship with each other for longer than your nervous system wants to manage.

The bad decision is frequently not a failure of moral courage, though it can be that. It is more often a failure of endurance — the capacity to remain in the pause long enough for wisdom to surface. Sacred Noticing asks something of us that the culture we inhabit systematically undermines: the willingness to wait for the right answer rather than accept the available one.

— ✦ —

The Spiritual Footprint and the Spiritual Trace

Here is where the anatomy becomes most instructive.

Every decision leaves a trace — not only in the world, but in you. The accumulated pattern of your choices, over time, forms what I have been calling your Spiritual Footprint: the quality of presence you carry and deposit in every room you enter. Some people’s decisions, traced over years, reveal a person who grew more integrated, more genuinely themselves, more available to wisdom. Others reveal a person who gradually accommodated, compromised, and narrowed — not through dramatic betrayal but through the small, repeated choice to end the discomfort rather than remain in the question.

The Spiritual Trace is more immediate. It is what a single decision deposits — in the people who experienced it, in the atmosphere of the room afterward, in your own interior life. A decision made from the pause, from genuine discernment, leaves a particular trace: something others sense even when they cannot name it. Steadiness. Integrity. The quality of a person who arrived in the moment rather than reacted to it.

A decision made to end the pressure leaves a different trace. Others feel it too — often as a subtle wrongness they cannot quite articulate. A closing rather than an opening. And you feel it most of all, in the quiet afterwards, when the relief has passed and what remains is the faint but persistent recognition that you knew, somewhere beneath the knowing, that this was not the answer. Only the exit.

— ✦ —

The practice is not a guarantee against bad decisions. Sacred Noticing does not promise perfect discernment. It promises that you will have been present — genuinely present, in the space between stimulus and response — when the decision was made. And that presence, practiced consistently, changes the quality of what you bring forward. Not all at once. Not without setback. But over time, in the accumulated trace of a life lived with increasing awareness, it forms a footprint that is recognizably yours.

Not the managed version. The inhabited one.

— ✦ —

One question to carry this week — not to answer, but to hold:

Is there a decision you are currently holding that you already know the answer to — and that you are resisting not because you are uncertain, but because the true answer requires you to endure something longer than the false one does?

The pause is not delay. It is where wisdom lives.

— ✦ —

The themes explored in this reflection — the Spiritual Footprint, the Spiritual Trace, and the full practice of Sacred Noticing — are developed in depth in The Practice of Sacred Noticing: Transforming Your Spiritual Footprint, publishing April/May 2026. The book includes structured practices, weekly exercises, contemplative poetry and photography, and guidance for the specific situations where discernment matters most.

 

Michael J. Cunningham OFS

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The Caretaker Within

A Spiritual Break Reflection

 

Something of you remains after you leave every room you enter.

Not the memory of what was said. Not the impression you were trying to make. Something quieter than both — a quality of presence that persists in the people who received it long after the conversation has ended and the day has moved on. You have felt this in others. Their steadiness like medicine. Their kindness carried with you for years. Their particular way of being in a room that changed the room simply by being in it.

What you may not yet fully know is what you are leaving behind. What trace of your soul — the ground beneath the whole of your life — is reaching others without your awareness, without your arrangement, often in spite of your best efforts to present something more carefully composed.

This is where the Caretaker enters.

— ✦ —

The Caretaker

He comes before we wake,

Cleaning the hallways,

Unlocking the doors,

Making way.

 

Leaving our bedroom in silence.

The caretaker is our protector,

Or so our mind thinks,

Making our face to the world acceptable,

To the various audiences we play to.

 

However, the soul,

Hidden in the house which is our presentation to others,

Knows the rooms we have locked,

That others, even ourselves, are scared to enter.

 

For whatever reason,

When in fact they may contain the very treasures,

Others, and God see in us,

That we have obscured.

 

Without intention.

— ✦ —

There is a part of every person that wakes before they do.

Before the first conversation of the day. Before the demands arrive. Moving quietly through the interior life — through the house that is our heart and mind, sitting on the ground that is our soul — and preparing the version of us that will meet the world. Adjusting the face. Deciding, without much consultation, which rooms are open today and which stay closed. Making the whole presentation acceptable to the various people and situations the day will bring.

Most of us have never named this part of ourselves. But we have all felt its work. It is the voice that adjusts your tone a half-second before you speak to someone difficult. The instinct that knows, without deliberation, which version of you this particular room requires. It has been managing the household of your interior life — quietly, faithfully, for longer than you can remember — so that what you offer the world is ordered and unlikely to disturb.

This is the Caretaker.

And the Caretaker, for the most part, is genuinely on your side. The parts of you that are ready for company are kept in good repair. The face you bring to your friendships, your work, your family — the ordinary social grace of meeting the world without placing every interior weather on the people you love — this is real and useful work. Most of us would not want to be without it entirely.

 

But the poem names something else the Caretaker also does, in the same faithful and often invisible way.

Some doors are kept shut.

Not always because of what is difficult behind them. Not only the grief that arrived too large, the wound that needed time, the anger that felt too dangerous to carry openly. Sometimes the Caretaker closes a door because what is behind it felt like more than the moment could hold. More specific than the situation seemed to allow. More genuinely, particularly this person than the various audiences seemed ready to receive.

Think of the person who learned to listen because speaking felt unsafe — and whose listening became, over years, a gift of extraordinary depth that they have never quite named as a gift. Or the patience that was forged in a long season of difficulty and has been sitting quietly in a back room of the house ever since, waiting to be recognised for what it is. Or the courage that exists in someone because they survived something they did not think they would survive — and has never been claimed, only half-known, never fully brought forward.

These rooms are not locked because they contain damage. They are locked because opening them requires a kind of permission the Caretaker has not yet been given. Permission to bring the specific, unrepeatable self — with its particular gifts, its hard-won wisdom, its specific quality of presence — more fully into the rooms where others live.

The locked rooms may contain the very treasures others, and God, see in us. Not only the wounds waiting to be tended. The gifts waiting to be lived.

I may not be able to sing. But perhaps I can listen in a way that changes what people carry when they leave the room. I may not have the confidence the situation seems to require. But perhaps what I carry instead — the specific quality of steadiness or honesty or care that the Caretaker has been keeping quietly in reserve — is exactly what is needed and has been waiting, with more patience than I have shown it, for the door to be opened.

The Caretaker did not lock these rooms out of cruelty or error. It locked them for reasons that felt right at the time, in conditions that may no longer apply, with a faithfulness that deserves acknowledgment before it deserves critique. The rooms have simply been waiting. The gifts inside them have simply been waiting. Patient, uncomplaining, present all along beneath the house’s familiar and well-maintained surface.

 

The poem ends with two words that carry the whole of it.

Without intention.

Neither the locking nor the waiting was deliberate. The Caretaker learned its work gradually, usually early, always in response to something real. And the gifts have been accumulating in those rooms — the listening, the patience, the courage, the specific way of being that is yours and no one else’s — with a generosity that asks nothing except, eventually, to be let through.

The spiritual trace we leave in every room we enter — the quality of presence that persists in the people who received it — is shaped by what the Caretaker permits to come forward. The managed version of ourselves leaves a particular trace. The inhabited version, the one that includes what has been waiting behind the closed doors, leaves a different one. Not louder. Not more impressive. More genuinely itself. And it is the genuine self that others have been carrying without knowing it, in the way you carry someone’s steadiness like medicine for years without quite being able to explain where it came from.

The Caretaker is not the problem. It has been doing its job with dedication. But it has been waiting, perhaps for a long time, for permission to open a few more doors.

Not all at once. Not on any particular schedule. Simply — when the moment feels right, when a little more of the genuine self feels safe to offer — a hand on the handle. A door opened a little. The specific gift or wisdom or quality of presence that has been sitting patiently in that room, finally allowed to come forward into the house where others live.

— ✦ —

This week, one question to carry — not to answer, but to hold.

Is there a room in your house — a gift, a quality, a way of being that is genuinely yours — that the Caretaker has been keeping quietly closed? You do not need to open it today. Only notice it is there. And perhaps wonder what it has been waiting to offer.

The soul beneath the house already knows what is in that room.

It has been waiting patiently for the Caretaker to be given permission to open it.

 

 

 

Michael J. Cunningham OFS

From The Inhabited Life: Discovering Your Spiritual Footprint (forthcoming, 2026)

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The Sound Across the Water

A Reflection on Being Found

Most of us will never drown.

But most of us know the water.

We know what it feels like when the waves come bigger than expected — when what began as a manageable swim quietly becomes something else entirely. We know those strange mathematics of exhaustion, how energy disappears not all at once but in small, almost polite withdrawals, until one day we look up and realize the account is nearly empty. And we cannot remember the last time we felt solid ground beneath us.

It rarely announces itself as a crisis. That’s the thing nobody warns you about.

We imagine drowning would be dramatic — thrashing, panic, calling out. But I have been in the water long enough to know that the deeper kind of drowning is quieter than that. It feels, almost, like acceptance. It feels, at times, remarkably like peace. The head starts to bob. We call it equilibrium. We call it maturity. We call it, with great conviction, I’m fine, really.

We are not fine.

I have sat with enough people in these seasons — and have lived through more than a few of my own — to know that the quiet depletion is the one nobody talks about. The retreat leader who has led everyone else to stillness and forgotten where he left his own. The mother who pours herself out so completely that she cannot remember what she was full of to begin with. The executive who has mastered the language of resilience while quietly running on fumes. There is a kind of surrender that looks like wisdom but is really just depletion. We stop fighting not because we’ve found our center, but because we’ve run out of fight.

And yet.

Even here — especially here — something is moving across the water toward us.

This is what I keep learning, both from my own quiet drownings and from sitting alongside others in theirs: God is almost never where we expect the rescue to come from. The divine rarely shows up in the form we prepared for. We watch the horizon for a lifeboat with the right credentials, and the rescue arrives not as a boat at all, but as a sound. Faint at first. Familiar. Something we almost dismiss because it doesn’t look like saving.

A phone call from a friend who “just happened” to think of you that morning. A sentence in a book that lands like a hand extended in the dark. A moment of unexpected laughter right in the middle of grief — the kind that surprises you and then breaks something open. A stranger on the retreatants’ path who asks exactly the right question without knowing it. A memory that surfaces, unbidden, like a buoy.

The sound of a ship across the bay.

We hear it and we think: coincidence. We think: good timing. We think: lucky.

We rarely think: this is God’s doing.

And perhaps that’s precisely the point.

Sacred Noticing has taught me that divine presence in our lives operates mostly in the minor key — in the subtle, the understated, the easily overlooked. We want burning bushes. We get burning candles. We want the sea to part. We get a sound in the distance that pulls us back to ourselves just enough to keep going.

And that, I have found, is usually enough.

The rescue doesn’t require us to recognize it as rescue. The grace doesn’t demand that we name it correctly before it works. The ship crosses the water whether we know who sent it or not.

But here is the invitation: What if we learned to notice?

What if we practiced the contemplative art of looking back over our lives — over our near-drownings, our quiet depletions, our “I don’t know how I made it through that” seasons — and asked the honest question: What was moving toward me that I didn’t fully see?

You will find things there. I promise you will find things.

The friend who arrived at exactly the wrong moment that turned out to be exactly the right one. The door that closed so definitively it forced you toward the one that would actually open. The season of stillness that felt like failure — but was, in truth, the sea preparing to give you back to yourself.

God has, as the poem says, a heck of a sense of humor.

This is the quiet mystery at the heart of the contemplative life: we are rarely rescued the way we imagined, but we are rarely not rescued at all. The waves do not have the last word. They never have.

Something is always moving across the water. Something has always been moving across the water. The practice — the sacred, patient, lifelong practice — is learning to hear it before we go completely under.

Notice the sound.

It is closer than you think.

And it has been sent.

______________________________________________-

DROWNING

 

The waves are bigger now,

the coastline receding,

As the salty water soothes my eyes but smothers my breath.

 

It comes soon, I can feel it.

 

This time not with dread but with acceptance,

Legs tiring now, from hours or it’s minutes of movement.

 

No longer trashing,

Slowly doing what’s required to stay in place;

But with ever increasing  peace,

And less energy.

 

The head starts to bob under,

Slowly at first,

Then for longer,

As a call comes in,

“Come in number 10 your time is up”

 

God has a heck of a sense of humor!

 

Then just as the sea was ready to take its one big last swallow:

 

I heard a sound …

 

Faint at first but familiar,

The sound of a ship across the bay,

Waking my spirit,

As I bobbed one last time to see the commotion.

 

My rescuer was near,

And I lived another life thereafter.

 

 

Take a moment today to look back at one season when you felt you were running out of strength. What arrived? How did it arrive? Could you let yourself call it by its right name — even now?