The Gift of Emptiness

Growing up, I spent a lot of time alone. My parents divorced when I was three, and my dad lived 500 miles away in another state, so parenting was a solo job for my mom. She worked long hours, so my introvert and I seamlessly became the classic ‘latch-key kid.’

I had a single key strung on a piece of yellow yarn that I wore around my neck underneath my t-shirt. Each morning I would use the key to lock up the house, and each afternoon after kindergarten, I would walk home, let myself in, and spend the hours before dinner alone in my room.

It may sound like a sad scene, but in truth, I relished those quiet moments.

I didn’t have an obsession, or even a hobby. I wasn’t a savant—musical genius or otherwise. No, I would just sit or lie down, close my eyes, and go somewhere.

I didn’t have a name for this place. I didn’t meet otherworldly beings there. It wasn’t a fantasy world, and I didn’t converse with any imaginary friends.

Rather, this nameless, place-less place felt more like a void. A gap. A pause between places.

I was neither here nor there. I was alone, but I wasn’t.

There was a presence, and a feeling that I so desperately craved.  

This place held me, nourished me, mothered me, even, throughout my childhood. All those hours spent alone, and yet not—connected to the very fabric of existence—took care of me in a way I’m not sure any person could have.

At some point—probably around the time I was sneaking out of my bedroom window in the middle of the night and shimmying up metal poles to steal street signs—I lost my ability to enter the emptiness. Or, perhaps more accurately, I allowed my attention to be stolen by thoughts of being less-than, yearnings to be liked, and fears about who and what I would become.

It didn’t take long before I had completely forgotten about the emptiness.

But, of course, my need for nourishment didn’t go away.

I tried going to parties, but the moment I had a teaspoon of alcohol, I’d start climbing trees and scaling buildings. I tried getting good grades and stacking up accomplishments, but that just made people expect more from me than I ever thought I could live up to. My introvert and I even went to a rave and popped a little white pill, but, as you know if you’ve read my book, that didn’t turn out well.

I did finally find solace in running—pounding the pavement until those pesky ‘shoulds,’ ‘what ifs,’ and ‘what-do-they-think-of-mes’ quieted down in my mind—but the trouble with running was that although my mind adored it, my body did not, and injuries finally closed that door for me.

But even then, I was lucky.

My drug of choice—intense, sometimes excessive, exercise—was legal, and although painful, it wasn’t lethal.

Others—I’m sure we all know someone—aren’t so lucky.

It seems we’re all searching for this emptiness—a pause from the relentless mind chatter. A quiet moment where we can just BE.

Without running, I was forced to find my way back to the emptiness through attention alone. With my butt all but glued to the chair, I slowly learned to enter a meditative state that reunited me with my favorite childhood playground.

It’s not that hard, actually, if you’re good at letting go.

I, of course, was not. Hence my slow learning curve. But even I found my way.

The key, I’ve found, is space.

Not outer space. Just plain old mundane space.

There’s space between your in-breath and your out-breath. There’s space between your steps as you walk. Between the words on this page. Between the blades of grass. And sometimes, there’s even space between your thoughts.

Wherever I could find space, I simply put my attention there…

And as I did, the space would grow.

And grow.

And grow.

And eventually, the space would overtake me, and I’d find myself in the emptiness.

Today, during my swim, it was the ocean that guided me into the emptiness. She’s the most gracious guide I’ve found, offering us over 300 million cubic miles of liquid space.

Today, as she does every day, the sea held me in that familiar empty-but-nourishing way.

And then I felt my mom.

Mom hasn’t walked the Earth for nearly two years, but her presence was so strong in that moment that I wouldn’t have been surprised to see her swim right up to me.

And then I heard, “I can meet you here.”

“Here? In the ocean?” I asked.

“No, here in the emptiness.”

My ensuing grin rivaled my love-struck dolphin smile as I took in those words.

My mom can meet me in the emptiness. The place I found and cherished as a kid. The place I can now find through my breath, the wind, the sky, or through my beloved ocean.

“Was it always you here with me?” I asked. “Were you the presence I felt as a kid? Is that why it felt so good?”

“No, Claire. It was you. It was always you. You meet yourself here.”  

Funny how it never occurred to me that I could be the one nourishing myself. That I could be the one creating this delicious feeling of peace and wholeness.

“Thanks Mom,” I said into my snorkel. “I still have so much to learn from you.”