Embracing my empty spaces

Wealth is a lot of free space, Andy Warhol said.

A new way to look at all the things

I’ve been missing.

My inner emptiness is the speaker

To amplify the sound of my favorite music.

It’s my room to breathe,

To learn and grow at natural pace.

My empty spaces

Are those pockets of time

When nothing seems to happen

Yet those are the moments to catch up,

And complete what has been left unfinished.

I’m beginning to understand

Why less is more

By observing how one tries

To fill up those empty spaces

With just anything.

People collect junk to not feel poor

Or collect low-quality people

To not feel lonely.

Much worse, they coerce others

Into filling those gaps

Which, perhaps, were meant to be,

At least for now... or forever.

Like holes in Swiss cheese

Or fresh bread.

Instant fixes won’t stand the test

Of clear and quiet —

What they need is mess and noise.

Those people are never satisfied

And keep feeling lonely and poor

No matter how much attention they get

Or how picture-perfect their lives are.

For some, of course, it doesn’t look pretty.

I feel bad about sloppy hoarders

Both of affections and things... yuck.

If only all that could be washed away

To expose the perfection

They’ve been hiding

Mistaking it for lack.

I’m guilty of some of the above...

Such as collecting small nicknacks

Because I can’t afford a big home,

Or wasting time on small things

Because big tasks are so difficult.

But I still don’t understand such things

As “too much makeup”

Or “too much money”.

After all I’m afraid I’m ugly

And all that has to be painted over,

As much as possible.

Yet recently it hit me

In a written text,

A novel I heard a fragment of.

Sensations and impressions

Zoomed in, so very graphic,

Like extreme color saturation —

Or, as my first association was,

Too much makeup.

Ouch.

With finances, though, it’s murky.

Destiny, I dare you!

Show me what it’s like to have too much.

Show me the money.

Don’t know how long I’d have to wait —

Or toil to make that happen, some day

If ever.

So what if I let go?

It doesn’t mean giving up

Or tossing what I have —

But loosening my grip

Enjoying what is here now

While it lasts.

Not needing anyone to fill the gaps

Of insecurity and grief ...

Just let it be.

My inner emptiness

Is the way to receive

The goodness landing in my lap

Once I stop chasing/demanding/expecting

What I had hoped would make me happy

And let that happiness find me,

Feeling finally at home

Because I had spared enough room for it.

June 17, 2021. N.B.