{"id":4826,"date":"2026-09-14T09:42:45","date_gmt":"2026-09-14T08:42:45","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/blogs.canterbury.ac.uk\/partnersinlearning\/?p=4826"},"modified":"2026-09-14T10:48:38","modified_gmt":"2026-09-14T09:48:38","slug":"love-in-the-liminal","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/blogs.canterbury.ac.uk\/partnersinlearning\/love-in-the-liminal\/","title":{"rendered":"Love in the Liminal\u00a0"},"content":{"rendered":"\n

A Triptych Carried Like a Story on the Wind<\/strong> <\/p>\n\n\n\n

The Call (The Hobo Poet)<\/strong> <\/p>\n\n\n\n

The first voice in the darkness..<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\"\"<\/figure>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThough, notice that I sit waiting for the moon to turn back, that I may listen to all the people’s stories, for I am here in a great city. I do not obtain stories, I do merely listen, watching for a story which I want to hear, that it might float into my ear, and I will go sit at my home, that I may listen, turning my ears backwards to the heels of my feet on which I wait, so that I can feel that a story is in the wind.\u201d<\/em><\/strong> <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Van der Post, L. (1972)<\/em><\/strong> <\/p>\n\n\n\n

There is something within this Testament. Something that does not feel written so much as received. As if language here is not constructed but caught like dust moving through light, like breath held briefly in the hollow of attention, like wind finding its own way through the body. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

And before anything else, I want to begin here. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

With listening. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

With waiting. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

With the idea that stories are not made but moved. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

That they arrive like weather. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Like memory. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Like wind. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

I have come to understand my work, my life, and my PhD less as production and more as reception. Less as authorship and more as attunement. I sit, like the speaker in the Testament, not attempting to extract meaning from the world but attempting instead to become porous enough that meaning might pass through me. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

This is where the idea of the free radical begins. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

A free radical, in chemical terms, is unstable. It does not remain fixed. It seeks balance through encounter, through collision, through reaction. It moves between states, altering whatever it touches. I have begun to recognise myself in this description\u2014not as pathology, but as practice. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

To be a free radical is to remain open. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

To remain unfinished. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

To remain available to transformation. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

In the context of my PhD, this has become more than metaphor. It has become method. I am a nurse, a poet, a researcher, a thinker moving between disciplines that do not always speak to one another. And yet I have found that it is precisely in this movement, in this refusal to settle that something begins to emerge. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Not certainty. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

But resonance. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Not definition. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

But relation. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

There is a moment in Albert Camus\u2019 The Myth of Sisyphus<\/em> where he asks us to imagine Sisyphus happy. This sentence has followed me for years, not because it resolves anything, but because it refuses resolution. Sisyphus is condemned to push a rock uphill for eternity, only for it to roll back down again. And yet Camus does not ask us to pity him. He asks us to reconsider what happiness might mean in the absence of finality. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

What if meaning is not located at the summit? <\/p>\n\n\n\n

What if meaning is in the pushing? <\/p>\n\n\n\n

In the return? <\/p>\n\n\n\n

In the repetition? <\/p>\n\n\n\n

In the body that continues despite everything insisting it should stop? <\/p>\n\n\n\n

I think of this often in relation to care. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

In relation to nursing. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

In relation to love. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

There is something profoundly Sisyphean about care work. The return. The repetition. The ongoing act of showing up in the face of suffering, uncertainty, and impermanence. And yet it is not meaningless. It is saturated with meaning precisely because it is not resolved. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

It continues. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

And in its continuation, it becomes a form of devotion. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

This is where I begin to see convergence between Camus and the Testament. Between philosophy and listening. Between labour and wind. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Because what is described in that opening passage is not extraction, but attention. Not possession, but reception. Not ownership of story, but participation in its movement. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Stories float. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Stories arrive. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Stories pass through. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

And we, if we are lucky, become temporarily tuned to their frequency. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

This is also how I now understand community. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Not as structure, but as atmospheric condition. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Not as organisation, but as ecology. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Not as fixed identity, but as shared listening. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

There is a moment in the work of Laurens van der Post where story becomes something almost elemental, something carried across landscapes, not contained within them. A Story Like the Wind<\/em> is not simply a narrative title; it is a description of transmission itself. Story as movement. Story as air. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

I find myself returning to this often in relation to my own emerging community of practice. Because what is forming between myself, Claire Street, and India is not simply collaboration. It is something more liminal than that. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

We are not exchanging ideas. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

We are entering a shared field. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

A triptych of attention. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Three points that do not explain one another but illuminate one another through relation. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

A single point is location. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Two points create direction. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Three points create space. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

This is the geometry we now inhabit. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

And I want to name something clearly here: I did not expect this. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

For a long time, I believed that intellectual and creative work required a kind of solitary endurance. That clarity came from separation. That insight required distance. But something has shifted in this work. I no longer believe that isolation is the condition of depth. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Instead, I am beginning to understand depth as relational. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

As something that emerges between people. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Between voices. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Between forms of attention. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

There is a scientific language that has unexpectedly helped me hold this. In physics, the fine-structure constant, approximately 137 governs the interaction between light and matter. It determines how particles absorb and emit photons. It determines how energy moves between states. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

It is a hidden constant. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

A governing ratio. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

A structure beneath structure. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

And I find myself wondering whether love, too, has such a constant. Not in a reductive sense, but in a poetic one. A way of naming the invisible logic of encounter. The way we change one another simply by being near. The way presence alters state. The way attention becomes transformation. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Perhaps this is what it means to be human together. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Not static beings. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

But interacting fields. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Excitable matter. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Free radicals seeking temporary stability in each other. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

And so this first voice, the voice I am offering here, is a call. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Not a conclusion. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Not an argument. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

But an opening. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

A listening posture. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

A wind-facing stance. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Claire will follow this with her own exploration of liminality: the threshold, the in-between, the place where categories dissolve and new forms of knowing become possible. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

India will follow with her own response: emergence, resonance, and the lived experience of becoming within shared creative practice. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Together, these three essays form a triptych carried like a story on the wind. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Not fixed. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Not final. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

But moving. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

And I return, finally, to the Testament. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

To sitting. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

To listening. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

To waiting for stories to float into the ear like something half-remembered. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Perhaps this is all any of us are doing. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Waiting. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Listening. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Becoming available to what is already moving through us. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

And learning, slowly, that the wind has always known our names. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

The Threshold <\/p>\n\n\n\n

<\/p>\n\n\n\n

<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Claire Street..The second voice of the triptych.<\/em><\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

The Seamstress. <\/em>  <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Read down the centre. To the left, my thoughts. To the right, my reading.<\/em> <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\"\"<\/figure>\n\n\n\n
  <\/td>Tom<\/strong> holds out the thread. I take it, and I hold it up to the light, and I turn it. Because the way I have learned to look is kaleidoscopic. Not a window, which promises a single true view of a thing sitting still on the far side of the glass. A kaleidoscope. A short tube of mirrors and a handful of loose coloured fragments, and the whole of its truth is that you turn it, and the same few pieces fall into one pattern, and you turn it again, and they fall into another, and no single pattern is the correct one. There is the mirror, which only ever throws the same image back, and there is the kaleidoscope, which scatters the same few fragments into difference, and difference again, and never settles. So, this is my method, if it can be called one. I gather a few bright fragments, and I keep turning.   Here are the fragments. A red thread. A seam. A small monkey. A doorway with the light behind it. A continent the maps left dark. A fever, a mouthful of milk, and the sea. <\/td>In my own field a body of feminist work rejects one true, authoritative account and argues instead for multiplicity, for writing differently, for the partial and the embodied and the many voiced. Pullen, 2006; Gilmore et al., 2019; Vachhani, 2019; Weatherall and Bridgman, 2025. Haraway and Barad name this scattering of light into difference diffraction, set against the mirror that only ever returns the same image. Haraway, 1992, 1997; Barad, 2007, 2014. <\/td><\/tr>
  <\/td> <\/em> I turn the glass<\/em>   The first pattern is a question. Does love have a threshold? A threshold is a sill, the limen, the edge you cross to step into a room or to step back out of it, and the liminal is that room itself, the space between, that you can enter and, in time, leave. For a long time, I did not believe love had any such edge. Picture instead two scraps of cloth, cut from the same forgotten bolt, and a seam of red thread drawn through both. Once the seam is made you cannot find the place where one cloth ends and the other begins. The seam is not a border. It is a third thing, made of both, belonging to neither, the only part of either piece now fully alive. The thread does not join two things. The thread is where each thing first becomes itself. So, love is not a doorway you cross. Love is the seam, and the seam has no other side.   <\/td>    The liminal. Turner, The Ritual Process<\/em>, 1969, after van Gennep. The betwixt and between, the phase spent on the threshold. <\/td><\/tr>
  <\/td>I turn the glass<\/em>  <\/em> Now the same red falls across a continent. A maker fashions a woman and a man from offcuts of that old cloth, sews a heart and a small vial of passion inside each one, and plays a game. He sets the man at the lit centre of the world, where every map already knows his name. He carries the woman to the very bottom of a dark continent, a place his charts have marked unknowable, and he spins the globe, and he smiles, and he waits to see whether she can be found. The phrase is not innocent. It was borrowed from the old colonial dream of a place too deep and too tangled to chart and once used to name the inner life of grown women a darkness that science could not enter. But the dark continent is neither dark nor unexplorable. It was only dark to the one too frightened to go there. So, I no longer read that woman at the bottom of the world as lost. She is set down exactly where the old knowing fails, which is the only ground from which new knowing has ever grown. She is not waiting to be rescued into the light. She is the place the light has not yet learned to read.   <\/td>    A dark continent. Freud, The Question of Lay Analysis<\/em>, 1926. Written in English inside his German, to name the sexual life of women a place his science could not enter. Cixous, The Laugh of the Medusa,<\/em> 1976. The dark continent, she answers, is neither dark nor unexplorable <\/td><\/tr>
  <\/td>I turn the glass<\/em>  <\/em> A monkey drops into the pattern. He perches on a shoulder and whispers that the seam is a wound, that the two cloths were meant to stay apart, that you have crossed a line you had no right to cross, and he says it so reasonably that you take his voice for your own. I have stopped calling him a private demon. He is language itself when it forgets that it is only language. He is the law that polices the threshold and then swears the threshold was always nature. You cannot argue him down, because he is made of argument. He can only be outlasted, wrapped in linen, and given to the sea, the single element that dissolves anything certain of its own hard edge. The threshold frightens the solid and the bounded. Love frightens it. The sea frightens it. They are all the same fluid, refusing to hold a single name. The monkey wants edges. The water keeps dissolving them. <\/td>    Irigaray noticed that the whole house of Western thought was built to honour the solid, the bounded, the thing identical to itself, and does not know what to do with what flows and mixes and cannot be told apart from what surrounds it. Irigaray, This Sex Which Is Not One<\/em>, 1985. Neimanis takes that thought to the sea, and calls us bodies of water, each of us leaking and gestating and made mostly of the same flow, no body ever quite sealed off from the next. Neimanis, Bodies of Water,<\/em> 2017. <\/td><\/tr>
                            Too pale to read, or too much said. I cannot tell which one I am afraid of.<\/em> <\/td>I turn the glass<\/em>  <\/em> Now there is the fever, and a flame that burns an impossible colour, and a mouthful of milk. I cook leaves over that flame and feed them from my own memory and my own mouth to whoever lies burning on the threshold between living and not living. This is the knowing they once burned women for keeping, the knowledge of bodies and births and the porous edge of a life, that had to be destroyed before the new order could call itself reasonable. So, when I do this, I am not being whimsical. I am claiming a knowing that never pretends to come from nowhere and from no body but says plainly whose hands prepared the cup and whose mouth received it. This is white ink, the milk of it, the part that nourishes and is almost too pale to read. I have been writing in white ink the whole time. For years I only mistook it for a failure of discipline. <\/td>  The witch as casualty. Federici, Caliban and the Witch,<\/em> 2004. Women\u2019s knowledge of bodies and births, destroyed to let the new order call itself reasonable. Haraway calls this situated knowledge, a knowing that never floats free of a body but says whose hands prepared the cup and whose mouth received it. Haraway, Situated Knowledges<\/em>, 1988.   White ink is Cixous\u2019s name for writing that comes from the body, the milk of it, almost too pale to read. Cixous, The Laugh of the Medusa<\/em>, 1976. <\/td><\/tr>
      What is this?  autotheory, hydro feminism, writing the body.<\/em>  <\/em> Am I standing beside them, or behind them?<\/em>  <\/em>  <\/em>  <\/em>  <\/em>  <\/em> Is this what I saw, or is it the bruise talking?<\/em>  <\/em>  <\/em>  <\/em>  <\/em>  <\/em>  <\/em>  <\/em>  <\/em>  <\/em>  <\/em>  <\/em>  <\/em>  <\/em>  <\/em>  <\/em>  <\/em>  <\/em>  <\/em>  <\/em>  <\/em>  <\/em>  <\/em>  <\/em>  <\/em>  <\/em>  <\/em>  <\/em> What am I handing on, a warning or a gift?<\/em> <\/td>I turn the glass<\/em>  <\/em> And the room is not empty. Other women stand here, turning their own glasses, their own bright pieces of body and theory. There is a whole loose company of them now, naming the practice when names are wanted, and leaving it nameless when none will serve. I am only turning my own glass beside theirs.  <\/em> I turn the glass for the last time<\/em>  <\/em> The pattern that falls is one I did not expect, because it is made of after.  I have stepped out. The thread that held the seam has been cut, the two cloths have come apart, and I am not the woman who sat down to write this. So here is the truth I did not have when I began. Love does have a threshold after all. I know, because I have crossed back over it. I stood in that doorway a long time and called it home, and then one day I stepped out, into the ordinary light of the next room, and the door settled shut behind me. I no longer believe in true love, not because it was never real, but because I have learned that the liminal is a place you can leave. You step in. You are unmade and remade inside it. And then, if you live, you step out, and you carry the change in your body like a seam unpicked that never quite lies flat again.  Perhaps that is what the threshold was always for. Not to keep you, but to alter you, and then to let you go.  The glass still will not settle. The in love pattern is in there, the one with no other side, and it was true for as long as I stood inside it. This one is true now. The shifting is not a flaw in the seeing. The shifting is the seeing.  <\/em> If Tom<\/strong> faces the wind and listens, I stand on the far side of a door I have already walked through, turning the glass, the same few bright fragments falling into pattern after pattern, none of them the last. I pass the thread now, cut but still red, to India<\/strong>. So, I hold still. This knot is mine. Turn it however you like. <\/td>                            Ettinger has a name for the seam. She calls it a matrixial borderspace, the shared region where I and not I were never quite cut apart. Ettinger, The Matrixial Borderspace<\/em>, 2006.     Separation, threshold, return. van Gennep, The Rites of Passage<\/em>, 1960, first published 1909. The rite ends by giving you back to the world, changed. <\/td><\/tr><\/tbody><\/table><\/figure>\n\n\n\n
\"\"<\/figure>\n\n\n\n

I take back the thread and we collective pass the ends to India <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Dearest India: There we are sister, think about the flower and the cracks, <\/p>\n\n\n\n

The joy of darkness, <\/p>\n\n\n\n

The dance with pain, <\/p>\n\n\n\n

That\u2019s the call of the feminine age which must be birthed through the death of man,  <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Sat \u2013 chit – Ananda (Existence – consciousness – bliss), <\/p>\n\n\n\n

—————- <\/p>\n\n\n\n

<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The Screwtape diaries are a part of that darker love <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Hobopoet xx <\/p>\n\n\n\n

————————————————————————————————————- <\/p>\n\n\n\n

India Butler; the Third voice <\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

I am awe struck by the words i have received, \u00a0
\u00a0
The stories thay resonate with me \u00a0
Almost to the point of \u00a0
\u00a0
Catastrophe \u00a0
\u00a0
Just. \u00a0
\u00a0
Its funny, i sat down to read this many times\u00a0
And many times the monkey got too loud \u00a0
\u00a0
“You’re unfinished” \u00a0
\u00a0
“You’re all ideas, no theoretical foundation” \u00a0
\u00a0
“You’re inexperienced” \u00a0
\u00a0
then i remembered \u00a0
\u00a0
I have spent lifetimes knowing impossible unknowns. \u00a0
\u00a0
I have been writing in that white ink \u00a0
\u00a0
I have been the milk of it \u00a0
\u00a0
I have been trying to find a name \u00a0
\u00a0
And denouncing naming my practice all together, since i could remember. \u00a0
\u00a0
I have been an open book, connecting, changing, transforming the lives i encounter. \u00a0
\u00a0
Pushing a rock up a mountain of my own making, over and over. \u00a0
\u00a0
What i wrote below, came before \u00a0
\u00a0
Yet the poetic nature of emergence, \u00a0
\u00a0
connection, \u00a0
\u00a0
community \u00a0
\u00a0
Of love, \u00a0
\u00a0
tells me I did not need to read their words, to know them, and unknow what I knew [trauma]. \u00a0
\u00a0
I am allowed to love \u00a0
And to be\u00a0
Loved\u00a0
In this\u202f \u00a0
liminal space \u00a0
\u00a0
Sometimes its too easy to forget, \u00a0
\u00a0
I have agency. \u00a0
\u00a0
I am continuously learning, of what does not last; \u00a0
\u00a0
Things. \u00a0
\u00a0
People. \u00a0
\u00a0
Places. \u00a0
\u00a0
Feelings. \u00a0
\u00a0
I am learning that is not \u00a0
\u00a0
*bad* \u00a0
\u00a0
Liminiality invites change, growth and pain, but I can chose which path that takes me down. \u00a0
\u00a0
I can chose the pain that is love, \u00a0
\u00a0
Love that is the cheerful readiness to grow – like a dandelion who refuses to remain entombed by the concrete pavement – through the cracks with every part of me, as I traverse this unknown landscape, becoming rather unbecoming. \u00a0
\u00a0
Shedding old skins, which is not to be confused with discarding them. \u00a0
\u00a0
The liminal allows us to put down that which we have held on to with white knuckles, for longer than perhaps was helpful. \u00a0
\u00a0
Or perhaps for just the right amount of time.\u00a0<\/p>\n\n\n\n

What i write next, came after. 
 
I want to honour that trauma here.  
 
Offering myself to the liminal again,  
 
in this transition from practice to academia, that which has not been without painful reflection and growth,  
 
Yet it has enabled this beautiful process of emergence, of resonance, of shared experience.  
 
The creation of something entirely unfathomable until the particles collided.  
 
I truly believe, in all my experience of care, of\u202f community, of Nursing and of love,  
 
Until we come together,  
 
Until we offer ourselves  
 
To another  
 
Undone.  
 
And allow ourselves to sit  
 
and listen to the echo  
 
As we slowly piece things back together, never the same but together  
 
We will forego the opportunity to witness the sacred in each of us. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHe doesn\u2019t know what knowing is.. \u2018but you can choose how to hold it\u2019 says the voice of compassion in his heart\u201d.  <\/p>\n\n\n\n

My beautiful friend Macee, recommended Matthew\u2019s book, so there it is sit, sketching this and listening; and I chose to hold the belief that while love is possible in Liminiality, but I do not have to stay there. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\"\"<\/figure>\n\n\n\n

<\/p>\n\n\n\n

References or red threads for others<\/strong>\u00a0<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Camus, A. (1955) The Myth of Sisyphus<\/em>. London: Hamish Hamilton. 
 <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Van der Post, L. (1972) A Story Like the Wind<\/em>. London: Hogarth Press. 
 <\/p>\n\n\n\n

O\u2019Donohue, J. (1997) Anam Cara: A Book of Celtic Wisdom<\/em>. New York: HarperCollins. 
 <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Sheldrake, M. (2020) Entangled Life<\/em>. London: Bodley Head. 
  <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Feynman, R.P. (1985) QED: The Strange Theory of Light and Matter<\/em>. Princeton: Princeton University Press. 
 <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Jung, C.G. (1953\u20131979) Collected Works<\/em>. Princeton: Princeton University Press <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Barad, K. (2007) Meeting the Universe Halfway: Quantum Physics and the Entanglement of Matter and Meaning<\/em>. Durham, NC: Duke University Press. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Barad, K. (2014) Diffracting Diffraction: Cutting Together-Apart, Parallax<\/em>, 20(3), pp. 168 to 187. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Cixous, H. (1976) The Laugh of the Medusa. Translated by K. Cohen and P. Cohen. Signs: Journal of Women in Culture and Society<\/em>, 1(4), pp. 875 to 893. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Ettinger, B.L. (2006) The Matrixial Borderspace<\/em>. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Federici, S. (2004) Caliban and the Witch: Women, the Body and Primitive Accumulation<\/em>. New York: Autonomedia. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Freud, S. (1926) The Question of Lay Analysis<\/em>, in J. Strachey (ed. and trans.) The Standard Edition of the Complete Psychological Works of Sigmund Freud, Vol. 20. London: Hogarth Press, pp. 183 to 250. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Gilmore, S., Harding, N., Helin, J. and Pullen, A. (2019) Writing Differently, Management Learning<\/em>, 50(1), pp. 3 to 10. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Haraway, D. (1988) Situated Knowledges: The Science Question in Feminism and the Privilege of Partial Perspective, Feminist Studies<\/em>, 14(3), pp. 575 to 599. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

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A Triptych Carried Like a Story on the Wind  The Call (The Hobo Poet)  The first voice in the darkness.. \u201cThough, notice that I sit waiting for the moon to […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2494,"featured_media":4478,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-4826","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-uncategorised"],"acf":[],"aioseo_notices":[],"aioseo_head":"\n\t\t\n\t\n\t\n\t\n\t\n\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t