Space, Not Emptiness

I’ve noticed something about myself lately. Every time I decide to let something go, I almost immediately start looking for its replacement.

I don't think I realized I was doing it at first.

Something ends, changes, no longer fits, or simply runs its course, and before there's even time to feel the space it leaves behind, I'm already thinking about what should go there next. What will take its place? What will I do instead? What's next?

There's comfort in having an answer. Empty spaces make us uneasy. They feel unfinished, as though something is missing and it's our job to hurry up and fill it.

But lately I've been wondering why. Why does everything I leave behind need to be replaced?

Maybe some things are supposed to leave an empty space. Not an emptiness. There's a difference. Emptiness feels like something is missing. Space feels like possibility. And I'm beginning to understand that I haven't always allowed myself much of it.

I curate for a living, and apparently for a life too. Give me an opening and my mind starts figuring out what can go there. Give me a blank page and I'll start filling it. Give me an ending and, apparently, I'll start designing the beginning that should follow it. There's nothing wrong with that instinct. It's served me well. But there are seasons when constantly asking "what's next" keeps us from experiencing where we are.

Sometimes we need to sit in the space between what was and whatever will be. No plan for it. No name for it. No pressure to turn it into something productive. Just space.

Letting go, I'm learning, isn't only about having the courage to release something. It's also about resisting the urge to reach for something else simply because your hands are empty. That part is harder, because when you've spent much of your life fixing, tending and showing up, an open space can feel almost irresponsible. Surely I should be doing something with it.

Maybe not.

Maybe I can discover what I miss and what, surprisingly, I don't. Maybe I can let desire return on its own instead of deciding in advance what I'm supposed to want next. There's a freedom in that I don't think I fully appreciated before. I don't need a new version of everything I'm willing to release. I don't have to fill every opening just because I know how to.

Some spaces deserve to stay open for a while. Something wonderful might eventually find its way into one of them, something I couldn't have planned because I didn't yet know it existed. Or maybe nothing will, and that could be wonderful too.

So these days I'm trying not to rush toward the next thing. I'm learning to let an ending be an ending, to let space be space, and to leave my hands empty long enough to discover what, if anything, I actually want to pick up again.