Empty Space

There is a story in the gospel of Matthew that is often referred to as the parable of the empty house. The upshot of the story is that there was a man possessed by a demon. The evil spirit is cast out and goes in search of a new place to call home and cause mayhem. Finding no place to lay its evil little head, it decides to go back from whence it came, and finds the house swept clean and empty. And empty space just begs to be filled.

The story continues.

Not only does the demon move back in, it goes and finds seven others more evil than itself to live there too, causing even more harm, distress, and ruin.

Regardless of one’s faith, this story seems especially relevant as the pandemic moves into our rearview mirror. We all have our own inner demons and causers of mayhem, and if you are like me, this has been a year of casting out and sweeping clean. Whether cleaning out closets or casting out old ways of thinking, clearing my calendar or curbing my consumption, there is empty space, And empty space just begs to be filled.

What that empty space gets filled with is up to me.

Are the thoughts, beliefs, habits, and activities that filled my life before the pandemic the ones I want to fill it with today?

If not, now is the time to choose. Before those causers of mayhem decide to move back in.

The Spin

Is there anyone who isn’t ready to be on the other side of the pandemic?

I didn’t think so.

It feels like enough already. Except it isn’t. And probably won’t be for longer than we would hope. Which doesn’t mean that there isn’t reason to be hopeful. There is. But only if we stay the course.

And.

Staying the course is hard.

Let’s not make it any harder than it already is.

Maybe it’s all in the way we choose to spin it.

Rather than see it as always having to be careful, let’s see it as always being full of care for one another.

Rather than see it as having the discipline to always do it right, let’s see it as having the dedication to always do the right thing.

Rather than see it as never being able to gather with our loved ones, let’s focus on doing what it takes so that we can.

Rather than see it as all too hard, let’s see it as the hard work that will get us all through.

Rather than see it as a divisive political issue, let’s see it as a way of uniting us as people.

The quickest way to the other side is to stay the course. Let’s not make that any harder than it already is.

Maybe it’s all in the way we choose to spin it.

Photo by cottonbro from Pexels

Get Over It

When the reality of the pandemic first began to hit, many people, including me, had no idea how long a haul we were in for. Are in for.

We hunkered down and prepared ourselves to ride it out and make it safely to the other side.

Somewhere along the way, many people, including me, began to tire of the uncertainty, restrictions, and isolation. We were over it, and wanted to get on with it.

However, as lockdowns, mandates about the use of masks, group gatherings, school options, and tiered plans for re-opening continue to roll out, there is no real end in sight. Add to that the glaring light shining on systemic racism, the inequities in every arena, the political rancor that is poisoning our shared life, and perhaps the most important election of our lifetime—well— the haul just got longer.

We have each played a part in writing the story of today, and, we will each play a part in writing the story of tomorrow. Will we bring the best of ourselves to the world within our reach, or not?

There is no seeing over this horizon.

There is no getting to the other side of it.

This is what we have.

And this is where our work is.

Right here.

Right now.

Wishing it were different never has, and never will, make it so.

Let’s get over it, and get to work.

Photo by Gabriel Peter from Pexels

The Sound Of Silence

Silence.

It has been one of the most profound markers of this global pandemic. Not simply the lack of surface noise, but the presence of a deep quiet. It is, as many have noted, as if the Earth is catching her breath. Not gasping for air, but quietly inhaling and exhaling in the way one does when in a deep and restful sleep.

It is as if silence is the container in which creation is meant to reside, and it must have been here all along, as in forever. But it took the absence of manmade sound for it to quietly slip into my awareness. In just 6 short weeks I have come to depend upon the presence of this ancient silence. It has permeated my interior landscape and quieted my inner thoughts, and I never want to lose it again.

This morning, for the first time in many weeks, that deep silence was broken. Shortly after sunrise the sounds of big equipment rang across the valley. Someone, somewhere nearby, was dropping trees and moving dirt, the sound of human voices raised above the mechanical din, and try as I might, I could no longer locate the silence. It has been punctured by the sounds of people engaged in work that must have felt important to them, and yet in that moment I was filled with the kind of sadness that accompanies the loss of someone or something precious.

It was grief, pure and simple. The silence was gone.

It was tempting to place blame on those doing the work, or find fault with the people pushing to lift the restrictions meant to safeguard us too quickly. Doing so would have felt far better than sitting with the sadness. However, as the equipment continued to do what it was doing, I tried to let that sadness do what it was doing. As painful as it is, our sadness always points us toward something we hold dear.

Even as I understand that we must carefully begin to emerge from this time of quarantine and sheltering-in-place, I am deeply afraid of losing what has been gained during this time of mutual sacrifice for the common good. Of forgetting what has been remembered, and of discarding what has been discovered. Silence is one such thing.

Whatever work was being done just beyond the trees surrounding our property came to an end. The sound of heavy equipment and the people operating it stopped, and there it was. The deep silence, that container within which we all reside, was still there. And it always will be. If I lose touch with it again, there is no one to blame but me.