On Emptiness


It strikes me as impossible to write about emptiness.

I realize that the prompt I am using here was geared toward photographers.  But, even there, it is impossible to photograph emptiness.

Isn’t it?

Emptiness—the absence of somethingness.

And no matter what space you write about, or draw about, or photograph, there is something always there.

God is never absent.

There is no such thing as emptiness, unless you are dealing—or trying to deal—with a ketchup bottle that you are desperately trying to get the essential substance out of.  A real battle—it’s unwillingness to spew forth any of its contents.  That are there now, but soon will not be.

A car might be empty of passengers.  But their potentiality is still there.  The anticipation.

Well, then, what of an old, rusty car abandoned by an old barn?  Never to be filled with laughter again and driven off.  Well, is this car empty?

Probably not.

There are plants looking for space to put down roots.  Or snakes that need a cubby.

There are birds and bugs.

And raccoons.

There is always life raging to get a grasp on a space that pretends to be empty, but never is.

God is always there.

No matter how deep the vacuum that is created, God is always there.

Creation waiting for movement to burst forth its wiggle.  Stretch out across the canvas.  Paint itself into a whole new existence, a new place.

Perhaps there are times when we feel our hearts are empty.  But even then, it’s a matter of time, or a chance occurrence, that brings us an awareness of our fullness.

Our fullness of God.

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