I have thought about what an empty house feels like, when it has been full. Like an empty stomach, growling in places. There is such a silence.
It made me think of emptiness, this feeling. I didn’t want to. It was enough that I was being in it without disintegrating. That seemed a victory I shouldn’t mess with, a kind of blessing.
I am aware that the emptiness wraps itself around me, shapes me. I wonder what exactly this shape is that can exist in a vacuum. I never wondered when it was fullness that shaped me. I assumed that I was a function of all that surrounded me and all that surrounded me was multifaceted, loud, busy and demanding. Full of the human heart in it’s myriad forms demanding of itself, this then that. I was whirled in a constant dance by this bouncing off other beings. Knowing my edges only in the contact they made with other edges. Not knowing them otherwise.
But now this vacuum. So soft and empty. Again I am not clear about my edges. I don’t even know if I have any, nothing impacts them so I don’t know for sure if they exist. Space is spacious. There can be a crowded space, and I had that, for the past two years I had that. Every corner of my multileveled house had a life in it. A life that cleared it’s throat, sniffed, argued and made love. All over this house people were bumping into each other and loving it or retreating wounded to far off corners. Still a sniff away. Many hearts beat in this house. Together a heart robust with many chambers.
But that doesn’t change this now where the house is so quiet I hear the dove lovers outside cooing and the owls hooting after dark. Sometimes I skip around the house, singing badly to myself, simply enchanted by the space and the absence of eyes that might roll. I can do anything, anything! I can talk to myself and I’ll agree. I can disagree and I won’t be upset. I can make no dinners. I can just sit there on the sofa blissfully unaware of the time. I can bath and bath and bath. I am consuming no-one’s hot water.
I keep looking over my shoulder, self conscious, and that gorgeous feeling of no-one, no-one to measure me, to judge, even to love. No love, even. And me not minding it, not minding it at all. Discovering myself at the always forever epi-center of love itself.
I can be with me and we can slide past each other without catching, tugging requiring anything.
No need. No-one needs me. I need no-one. This vacuum has no need in it. It is so soft, everything fits me, everything caresses me, everything accepts me.
In an empty house I am more me, increasingly so. I grow dangerously big, vaporous, I extend beyond the house, I preside over it. I preside over the sky. I am the sky. The owls are my voices. The moon my silence.
I extend my arms, right to the very end of my fingers. I feel the air, in love with me. I look down at my tiny empty house, empty nest, Very sweet down there, but how can it contain me?