Couple days ago, I came across a nice little saying that gave me a little tingly feeling in my chest that must be what Christians call “hope” and it goes a little somethin’ like this:
“Everything I lose creates space for everything I need.”
It doesn’t really make logical sense, when you think about it, because presumably people all over the world are losing shee-yit they need all the time.
But when you feel you’ve lost something that was really important to you, like a job or a friend or a deal or an opportunity that you were certain you couldn’t live without, this mantra can re-orient you to the fact that, hey, you’re still here, you’re still alive, and in some sense of the word, that is all you “need.”
And now, like it or not, you have more time and space and resources to put toward your primary goal, focus, or calling.
Which is what I needed to hear this November, toward the end of the year, when things get reflective and emo and I start taking inventory of what the hell just happened these past dozen or so months (or, usually what didn’t happen).
And this year, there has been a lot of loss for me, including a marriage and all of its consequent subset of losses.
Things like: cancelled plans. Dreams I shared, and looked forward to with my wife, that began to fade, like Marty’s hand when he’s playing guitar at the school dance in Back to the Future and his parents almost don’t get back together.
Getting robbed of time with my young daughters, who look to me to explain to them what’s what in life.
Things like this.
But, thank jeezus, there also happen to be sideswipe blessings of “losing” so much.
Blessings like sharpened focus, refined integrity, heightened senses, hunger, and loneliness. I realized loneliness was a gift about ten years ago, after my first divorce, which brought along all of its subset oflosses: precious time with my (firstborn) daughter; a shattered identity; the drifting hopes and dreams anchored in that relationship, that inevitably stretched and melted and floated away like clouds.
With loneliness comes quietness, stillness, and more empty space than you really care to have–at first, anyway. That is, until you realize your standing atop a huge blank sheet of paper with bare feet and puddles of ink to start tramping around in.
-Paul