Inside there is a yearning to give ourselves to emptiness. What holds us back is attachment and necessity. So, thinking about the paradoxical scariness and potential of emptiness - what might it mean to give up everything?
Even writing about this gives me a tightness. I move away from the possibility towards the safety and security of the material and tangible. I have relationships and feel love. I have new beginnings and treasured histories. The familiar is now a comforting enhancement.
Yet can these familiar and material things hold emptiness within? Can the paradox complete itself? Perhaps I can be empty as I fill myself with loving attention. Perhaps I can be empty as a poem emerges, unbidden, from within. Perhaps I can be empty as I stand in the garden and look towards to the hills and the sky.
And as this moment empties out, what flows in is something tentative and intriguing. It is small and mysterious and utterly undimmed.