empty
I awake this morning to a leaden, pre-storm sky, not yet light, the room silent but for my sleeping husband’s quiet breathing. The holiday season over, the work of this new year not yet begun, I gaze out the window near our bed, studying the dark shadows of the mountains beyond and searching for the right word to put to my feelings.
Melancholic. Yes, a little.
We said good-bye to Jack yesterday, knowing it will be early June before he’s home again. The departure of a grown child, even to a life he loves and thrives in, always brings with it a quick, sharp pang of parting. And although it’s only January 3 by the calendar, I’m more aware of endings at this moment than new beginnings. The year ahead will hold unexpected blessings, certainly, but there will undoubtedly be heartbreak, too. The poignance of more comings and goings, changes and transformations, as well as more permanent losses. And my soul, anticipating, has already shouldered some of that grief.
Tired. That, too.
It’s been a tough few weeks. First there was all the bustle and preparation of Christmas, the shopping and cooking and cleaning, the care taken to uphold our traditions, to create a special season, a lovely day, a whole series of delectable meals. And then, no sooner was the holiday ushered out and the house set to rights, than we found ourselves entertaining an uninvited guest. Jack and I, and our neighbor Debbie, were all knocked flat within the same hour by a violent intestinal bug. Instead of the movies and dinners, winter hikes, and family activities I’d envisioned for the wide-open days after Christmas, we shared a catalog of unspeakable symptoms, trips to the ER, twin IVs, slow recoveries. Tired is an understatement.
Gratitude. Of course, always.
In the midst of our sickness, Steve and Henry leapt to the rescue, cleaning bathrooms and running loads of wash, making countless trips up and down the stairs with buckets and rags, glasses of Pedialyte, cups of tea, stacks of Saltines. My friend Maude brought ginger ale and homemade turkey soup and healing potions. We were well nursed and yesterday, finally, six days into the ordeal, our bellies rumbled once again with hunger. (I was so sure I’d feed Jack up while he was home and send him back to school carrying a few more pounds on his tall, lean frame; instead, I’m pretty sure he’s had to tighten his belt another notch.)
And so, perhaps it’s fitting somehow that the word I finally land on to describe my inner state is this one: Empty.
It’s not just that my innards have been thoroughly scoured this week, although I’m definitely feeling emptied in a physical way. But my spirit feels as if it’s been poured out, too. I am in need of sustenance of every kind — soul food and real food, replenishment both spiritual and literal.
Later, after the breakfast dishes are done and Steve and Henry have left for the day, I pull my worn, well-read copy of Gift from the Sea from the bedroom shelf. I’m not even surprised when the book falls open to the very passage I’ve come in search of:
“Traditionally we are taught, and instinctively we long, to give where it is needed – and immediately. Eternally, woman spills herself away in driblets to the thirsty, seldom being allowed the time, the quiet, the peace, to let the pitcher fill up to the brim.”
Yes. How satisfying it is to see another’s need and to meet it, quietly, without a fuss. How swift I am to find my own purpose in easing the way for someone else. Indeed, the more uncertain I’m feeling about myself, the more insistently I ask, “How can I be useful here?” Simply answering the question reveals the path forward.
But as we all know, it’s easier to give to others than to ourselves. Easier to spill our energies than to replenish them. Easier to quench another’s thirst than to acknowledge our own.
Today is a day to fill my pitcher to the brim. I turn up the heat, start the dishwasher, and sit down in the kitchen, a stack of books and notes at my side. I read a few more pages of Ann Morrow Lindbergh, grateful as always for this uncanny sense of kinship that transcends time and space, amazed that a woman writing before I was born remains so vibrantly alive in my imagination, as if she is herself a trusted friend, nearby, ready at any moment to whisper straight into my heart.
“I do not believe that suffering teaches,” Anne insists. “If suffering alone taught, all the world would be wise, since everyone suffers. To suffering must be added mourning, understanding, patience, love, openness, and the willingness to remain vulnerable.”
Yes, again.
Her words remind me: there is no escape from the reality of things falling apart. “Everyone suffers.” The choice I have, the only choice really, is to plumb the possibilities for growth and healing even in the midst of pain. And growth can’t happen in the dark. Growth requires sunlight, water, care, and space. Healing doesn’t occur in a vacuum. Healing goes hand in hand with allowing, accepting, softening.
Filling the pitcher means taking time — time to reflect, to rest, to read poetry, to look at beautiful art, to get lost in a novel, to walk through the woods at dusk, to sift through thoughts and feelings and to make room for all of them. Grief and joy, fear and courage, despair and hope.
I close the book, turn off my laptop, and set all of my things aside. It is indeed both wisdom and solace I’m thirsty for; these are the qualities with which I long to fill my pitcher. But perhaps on a cold, sere January morning, “empty” is not a bad place to be.
Emptiness is also readiness. Emptiness is potential. Emptiness is a space swept bare. Emptiness is a willingness to sit here very quietly, for as long as it takes, allowing things to be just as they are.
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