Week 3, Verse 4
The Tao is like a well:
used but never used up.
It is like the eternal void:
filled with infinite possibilities.
It is hidden but always present.
I don't know who gave birth to it.
It is older than God.
---
A void doesn't always seem like a good thing. An eternal void even less so. Try it in a sentence. Take something that you would normally think of as a positive or at least neutral thing, and then add on the descriptor "...is an eternal void."
"My soul is an eternal void."
"My future is an eternal void."
"Loving you is an eternal void."
I could write a bad emo song this way.
I don't feel like a bad emo song lately. Things are nice. Brent and I moved into our new little townhouse apartment last night. We made stir fry there and shared it with Danielle. Cameron came over and helped us move things - the couch, my mattress, a few basic things we would want right away. We have many plans for the place - murals we will paint, gardens we will grow, curtains and mirrors and beanbags and hooks for rope suspensions - but for now the place is filled only with its infinite possibilities. A void that we can pour ourselves into endlessly.
In that way, I hope that my soul and my future and my love actually are eternal voids. I hope that I am used but never used up; filled but never full. I hope that every day contains more possibility than it could ever use. I hope that things are as good as I need but never as great as I dream they will be. I hope for nights spent snuggled up in the only bed in the house, living on only the things that are old and hidden.
And I know that I don't need hope, because these things are always present.
Sometimes I think that things like the Tao Te Ching are most useful when you are confused or unhappy. Today I am remembering that joy has its lessons too, and an eternal void can be the sweetest thing of all.
used but never used up.
It is like the eternal void:
filled with infinite possibilities.
It is hidden but always present.
I don't know who gave birth to it.
It is older than God.
---
A void doesn't always seem like a good thing. An eternal void even less so. Try it in a sentence. Take something that you would normally think of as a positive or at least neutral thing, and then add on the descriptor "...is an eternal void."
"My soul is an eternal void."
"My future is an eternal void."
"Loving you is an eternal void."
I could write a bad emo song this way.
I don't feel like a bad emo song lately. Things are nice. Brent and I moved into our new little townhouse apartment last night. We made stir fry there and shared it with Danielle. Cameron came over and helped us move things - the couch, my mattress, a few basic things we would want right away. We have many plans for the place - murals we will paint, gardens we will grow, curtains and mirrors and beanbags and hooks for rope suspensions - but for now the place is filled only with its infinite possibilities. A void that we can pour ourselves into endlessly.
In that way, I hope that my soul and my future and my love actually are eternal voids. I hope that I am used but never used up; filled but never full. I hope that every day contains more possibility than it could ever use. I hope that things are as good as I need but never as great as I dream they will be. I hope for nights spent snuggled up in the only bed in the house, living on only the things that are old and hidden.
And I know that I don't need hope, because these things are always present.
Sometimes I think that things like the Tao Te Ching are most useful when you are confused or unhappy. Today I am remembering that joy has its lessons too, and an eternal void can be the sweetest thing of all.