in praise of emptiness
I just got home after spending seven weeks in Texas. Our time there was incredible—and incredibly full. So much good work and even better play. More fun, family time, laughter, meaningful conversations, and visits with old friends than I've experienced in a long time. I savored it all.
On Saturday we started the long drive back home to North Carolina. The first six hours or so of the drive were likewise very full. We listened to podcasts (these two episodes likely sowed the seeds for what was to come), played the Hamilton soundtrack (again), took breaks for snacks and stretching, took turns reading from our current family read-aloud (more thoughts on books and reading below).
Finally, the fullness began to empty away. The lags between conversation became longer, the requests for favorite songs less urgent, the sounds of sleepiness from the back and passenger seats more pronounced. Ignoring my impulse to ask another question or put on another podcast, I leaned into the silence instead. Hello, friend. It's been a minute.
Somewhere in the empty spaces between the miles, with the radio off and my husband and daughter sleeping softly nearby, something deep within seemed to soften, sigh, and stretch wide. A slow trickle began to swell, eventually giving way to a deep, brimming fullness. Later I pulled over, we switched drivers, I read another chapter aloud, we cued up Hamilton (again, again). The spell of the emptiness was broken—but the sense of fullness remained.
Since returning home, I've been making time for more of that empty—or perhaps I should say open—space. This is different than my habitual practices of stillness and silence, which tend to be more focused and intense. It's more idle, more playful, less demanding, but no less present or intentional. I simply show up, pay attention, and wait to see what happens—or doesn't—with no agenda or expectation.
I'm practicing a similar approach in my relationships, too—setting aside time just to show up and pay attention to my daughter and my husband. It's been beautiful. It turns out I need some external emptiness—or openness—to experience the internal fullness I crave. In setting aside my expectations, I experience more connection. These are not new revelations, just good reminders—and deeper expressions—of truths I already know, though they sometimes get crowded out. (Sidenote: this is precisely why open space is a central feature on every single page of the Sacred Ordinary Days Planner.)
Do you have similar experiences with outer emptiness and inner fullness? How do you make space for the kind of openness that fills and renews? Am I the only one who does their best thinking on 20+ hour road trips?
