“You’re only here for a short visit. Don’t hurry. Don’t worry. And be sure to smell the flowers along the way.” - Walter Hagen

As the bus pulls up to the stop, a switch flips. The once stagnant and quiet herd begins to bustle with movement. Cards swipe, coins fall, shoes squeak as the group files onto the shuttle. At an adjacent sidewalk, determined students quickly cross the street, hoping to slash their dreaded seven minute trip into a mere five. A rushed cyclist stopped by the moving cluster curses under his breath, knowing he will have to perform the late walk of shame once he gets to class.

We tend to blur our journeys, favoring the destinations. With seemingly endless classes, clubs, and events, there is simply not enough time for students to stop and smell the flowers. Liminal spaces—buses to events, walks to libraries, bike rides to classes—are too often overlooked, despite their wealth of simple beauties.

Take the walk to my first class. No matter how quickly I throw on an outfit and pack up my books, I find myself on the brink of tardiness every morning, and my daily commutes turn into rushed scrambles. In my haste, I miss the sun illuminating the auburn fall leaves and the serenity of a silent stroll. What could be a soothing transition between my grounded morning routine and class becomes a disjointed experience. Instead of going to class, I am getting to class. In the latter case, the destination is the sole recipient of my energy, minimizing a liminal space that is ripe with potential. Shortening our transition periods not only erases the chance to daydream and relish in the gorgeous scenery, but also effectively prevents any chance for a relaxing mental reset. 

Daily journeys should take inspiration from road trips. Nostalgic by nature, the road trip is a rare form of transitional state that exists in itself as a main event—a vacation. The purpose of a road trip is to make a wrong turn. To take the scenic route. To stop for those unforeseen moments that could never have occurred without your dad’s faulty navigation or your sister’s sudden craving for gas station pizza. Road trips celebrate the love of the journey and those you take it with—be it family, friends, or just the voice inside your head. It is about appreciating slowing down and embracing the countless small wonders of being on the go. Road trips rebel against the hustle and bustle of daily life and highlight what liminal spaces could be. Why can’t my walk to class embody this same enthusiasm for life? Rather than speeding along, in a disgruntled haze, my transitions should demonstrate observation akin to that which is practiced in a road trip. Liminal spaces can be much more than routes to destinations; they can be meditative resets that cherish the joys of the present.

If a liminal space is a physical space of transition, college serves as an intellectual liminal space between youth and adulthood. All of the anxiety we harbor toward daily transitions is comparable to our feelings toward instability—long-term transition periods—in our lives. Just as I rush to class and try to shorten my walk, I rush to shorten the awkward limbo of not knowing what to do with my life. My uncertainty is put at ease by false security created through meticulous planning. Think about how many people you know who focus more on the future than the present—on how they need to do X, Y, Z to pursue a specific future career and eventually attain their dream life. Planning like this reflects an apprehension toward existing in this transition period of life. 

College should be like a road trip. There have to be twists, turns, and changes of plans along the way. Rather than prematurely skipping to the future, we should just go slow, look out the window, and enjoy the ride.