I thought home needed to be tall and luminous, a glowing building with a luxurious setting. Status. What I failed to understand is home is not where I place my head down at night or the color of my furniture. Home is the people I surrounded myself with, the ones I break bread with. The keepers of my secrets and my fears. It is to be loved and to give love without inhibitions.
By identifying with a craving (‘I want this,” “don’t want’ that”), you tighten the clutch and intensify its resistance. Instead of being a state of mind that you have, it becomes a compulsion that has you. As with understanding anguish, the challenge in letting go of craving is to act before habitual reactions incapacitate us.
Emptiness felt like a living thing. A parasite growing in the center of your chest, somewhere behind your heart, taking every ounce of warmth and light and happiness and consuming it until there’s nothing left. Emptiness feels like exhaustion, like there’s no reason to fight, no reason to take another breath, no reason to try to survive. But emptiness also feels like freedom. Because it doesn’t just take the good, it takes the bad, too–the anger, the bitterness, the pain–and when it’s done, it leaves you with just you. A cold, shell-like echo of yourself, but still you.
―Ava Jae, Beyond the Red
I feel so dreamy
dreamy lazy, crazy sleepy
like I want to be there
in the doorway, the doorway
or the porch corner
be sitting, be empty
not doing not going
an old bucket left there
in the porch corner is like I am
an old empty bucket somebody left there.
―Ursula K. Le Guin, Always Coming Home
Empty is the perfect state of being. Nothing inside to anchor you. Nothing inside to chain you down, keep you from living your dreams. Empty, almost weightless, you are an eyelash afloat on a blink of breeze. You can rise above tension and worry, loosed from the grip of gravity. Adrift in thermal lift, you ride the wing of freedom and soar. Empty, you are Eve in Eden. Empty, you are what you were meant to be.
People who have lost relationships often wonder why they can’t just let it be “water under the bridge.” It is water under the bridge – the trouble is we do not live on the bridge but in the river of life with its many twists.
She needs a new journal. The one she has is problematic. To get to the present, she needs to page through the past, and when she does, she remembers things, and her new journal entries become, for the most part, reactions to the days she regrets, wants to correct, rewrite.