Sic transit: across, beyond, through. Trans is a crucial little particle for the threshold creature, the liminalist, whose practice is Zeno's paradox. Out on the limitless limb of her asymptote, where she seems to have all the time in the world , she thinks, "I'm getting there," halving the distance once again. And again. And again.
She keeps hearing the old refrain: No trespassing.
Nonetheless, it occured to her one day that some kind of leap might be in order. It would not be the first leap. Just a leap. Not "of" anything. Over the years she'd found herself inside from time to time. She recalled how the actual moment of crossing over gets lost in a quantum blaze of de- and re- materializing. "This must be how Alice felt passing through -- transgressing -- the mirror's surface," she'd think, looking around, resheveling nervously, praying for invisibilty wherever she landed, zendo or cathedral, monastary chapel or church parlor.
The church was big. She'd chosen it partly for its size, hoping it would contain a crowd into which she could melt. It was also beautiful, a small cathedral of pale gray stone, with several tall, excellent windows. She'd deliberated a long time -- months ? years ? -- before choosing, pondering every aspect of the decision. She'd had her eye on several candidates and picked one partway between heaven's whitewashed Congregational anteroom and the shadowy godbox in which she would always be the scandal-tainted outsider.
The heavy side door was open; the shadowy vestibule was empty. It was now or never. She made her move. Leaped...
... across.
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