Running on Empty

A hole appeared in my yard early in the summer. It is four inches in diameter and, I discovered when I recently got up the courage to put my arm in it, elbow deep with one small outlet--or inlet--at the bottom. I have observed no life in it. It is empty. And bound to stay empty until I fill it up.

I have been working nearly around the clock since the end of August on a work project (along with my normal duties). It is a creative project that I enjoy; and includes the frustration--and thrill--of a hefty learning curve. There has been no time for boredom. I am pleased, so far, with the results of my hard work. But last week I realized I was running on empty. How is it that when my days are the most full, I can feel the most empty? I think it is because there is no balance. And it is bound to stay empty until I fill the hole up. But not with just anything. I need to find the balance.

My friend Bob says there is a difference between soil and dirt. Dirt, I suppose, is sterile at best, and contains elements of things undesirable at worst. Soil has nutrients and fertilizer and things that will encourage and enhance growth. I have the choice to choose either dirt or soil to fill the holes in my yard and in my life. In my yard I will probably just scoop up a shovelful or two of the closest thing available--probably dirt. However, easy as that would be, I have not done it. Something called to me to observe the hole--all summer. It is as if the hole was waiting for me to discover its implications for my life. I think I can fill it up now. It will take more time to find the right soil for my soul. I might have to remain empty for a while, too. Empty to observe. Empty to discover what will bring balance. I believe it is in the emptiness that the One who is More enters our lives.

Empty is not a bad state of being, and yet we rush to fill the hole because it feels bad. And we feel like everyone is looking at us, wondering what is wrong with us. Or we wonder why they go about their own busyness without noticing we are empty. It's easy to miss. It's easy to miss ourselves, because we have so much going on. It is not the same as sad, often recognizable by tears and difficulty carrying on; which is why filling the holes with dirt can mask it.

Last week a friend sent me a story making the internet rounds. It is about a professor of philosophy who shows his students how to fill up a jar. When it is first filled with golf balls it appears full. But he demonstrates that there is still room for small gravel. They then agree that it is indeed full. But then he pours in sand (or dirt), and there is room for that, too. And after all that filling, still there is space for a cup of coffee. The point is that if we first fill our life with that which is most important to us, we can still fit in things that are, perhaps, necessary (like our jobs), but not the most important. And after all is said and done, "There is still room for a cup of coffee with a friend." Unfortunately, most of us fill up first with gravel and dirt--the have to haves, but not that which gives us life. We save what is most important for the room left over; but there is no room. So we do without the golf balls, and then wonder why we are empty.

I am thinking, now, about what my golf balls are: my garden, family and friends, yoga and walking, mountains, solitude, someone to love. Some golf balls are unattainable, though. I have a tendency to think life is empty and out of balance when one thing is missing. And it is not true. There is more room for extra gravel; or perhaps for a golf ball that would not fit before. Last night, as I sat in my garden, I found myself noticing the small things that fill me up. Things I miss for the golf balls and gravel. It is not always what we put in our jars ourselves, but what is already there for the seeing. A picture sent on my phone of my grandson ready for his first ever soccer game. A raccoon running through the garden. Two friends who love me enough to feel safe saying they are experiencing a low spot, (which makes me aware that it’s not just me feeling that way, and it is not just about me). The setting sun slanting through the trees onto the garden sanctuary, and the time to sit with it. Pizza made with whatever is in my refrigerator and garden. A new novel by Anne Lamott (albeit it, as of page 36, a depressing one). The approach of the autumnal equinox, and another night of sleep with open windows. My cat curled against my legs, softly snoring. A quartet, then a trio, then a duet of little brown birds sitting on a cafe table; the duet turning their heads from one side to the other in perfect synchronization. The soft morning fog giving way to sunlight. And all of that in just 24 hours.

I spent 36 hours in the mountains this weekend and observed holes in nature as I hiked. Perfectly symmetrical ones in rocks, presumably made by drips from the overhanging rocks falling for decades into the exact same spot. They fill temporarily with leaves and other debris, only to be worn back empty by the drips. Holes between roots that fill with more permanent moss and other vegetation. Holes of blue in the dark sky that constantly shape-shift here and gone and here again. Rotten logs than become ever so gradually more of a hole.

Without dwelling on it, I know that there are holes or empty places in my soul that are permanent; that can only be worked around. Other holes can be refilled with things equivalent or even better than what previously existed. And some holes shape-shift, filling and emptying and filling again. And so it is true for all of us. What I know for sure is that it does not serve us well to continue to run on empty. We must take time to stop at look at the empty. To rearrange and reassess our golf balls and our gravel and our sand. Our life depends on it.