Time + Rhythm
The Seven Dimensions of In-between, Part Two
In the in-between, time refuses to behave. Time loops. It grieves. It stretches and contracts. It has its own rhythms, and not merely human ones.
Dragonflies, for instance, experience time in a vastly accelerated way. Their flickering movements and high-frequency perception allow them to register more frames per second than we do. It’s like living in a constant time-lapse, every moment stretched wide with input. What seems quick or blurred to us is spacious and detailed to them. It reminds us that time is not fixed. It is perspective.
Likewise, ancestral timelines whisper beneath our feet. Slow, non-linear. It skips the calendars and turns toward ceremonies, wounds, returns, and remembered dreams. The in-between often opens a doorway where ancestors speak beyond words, in intuitions, disruptions, synchronicities, and the reemergence of questions we didn’t know we inherited.
Days may feel long, stretched and slow, and yet somehow the weeks slip past in a blur. You look up and it’s been three months. Or maybe just three days that felt like three lives. This distortion isn’t a glitch. It’s a clue.
In these moments, urgency can press against the edges of our stillness. There are bills. There is pressure. There is loneliness. There’s a voice inside (or outside) saying: shouldn’t you be moving faster?
Consider: Where is that urgency coming from? And who benefits when you rush?
The in-between demands trust, not panic. Everything in divine timing… yes, possibly the worst phrase to hear when you’re aching to move forward. It’s also frustratingly true. Not because we’re waiting for celestial puppet strings to wiggle us around, but because alignment, real alignment, requires presence, not performance. If you are in-between currently, take some solace that not just you, but everyone, is subject to the collapse of linear, progress-driven narratives of time. That myth is over. Those that don’t see this are in for an extra bumpy ride.
Embodied example: You keep trying to plan six months out, but the map won’t hold. Nothing sticks. So instead, you create a small ritual each morning: a cup of tea, a grounding check, one next step. This isn’t fast, yet very alive. You are more present to life than many get to experience.
The art of wandering, as Rob Walker describes in The Art of Noticing, becomes more than a metaphor. It’s how we stay connected to the texture of life when direction is unclear. Wandering is not the same as drifting. It’s active noticing. It’s what allows the future to arrive without force.
Stay tuned for Part Three next week on Relationship + Community
Join a small cohort (max 8) of inbetweeners July 8th-August 26th here: https://shelkimen.com/thefield