Everything/Nothing

everything-nothingThere isn’t a word for the unique brew of abundant scarcity. I feel it always, nearly every day – this wave of everything and nothing at the same time. This perceived abundance of time and moments with the very knowledge that it is passing, right now, this very moment. That the sun outside is sinking and tomorrow it will sink again but a fragment of a moment later, an inch to the left of the horizon and that next week, next month, next year it will set again in the same way – a different way – and we will be changed.

There will always be more, until there isn’t.

We will always have enough, until we don’t.

I look at Bee sometimes and I mean, really look at her, and I just get a little out of breath. It happens when I’m cutting strawberries or tying her shoe and I realize that this very thing will not happen again. I will cut millions of strawberries in my life (God-willing), but not right here, with this knife with the horseshoe ring on my left finger, the one with the knuckle that’s cracking slightly from cold weather and dry skin and airport soap. I won’t cut strawberries while she’s swiveling around on her bumblebee scooter and telling me a story about the unicorn statue. I’ll cut them tomorrow, and the moment will be different and the same; bigger and smaller.

Abundantly scarce.

They’re a perfect blend, don’t you think? If we set our minds on an abundant life – a clock of everything – we’d never be in want. We’d never be in need of more minutes or moments or memories. We’d slowly wait and sit and wish without thought until we realized our fingers were pruney and the hourglass was tipping. There would be so much sand on the bottom and we’d cry. We’d cry because it happened too fast for us to realize. We’d cry because we thought it would always be there.

But if we set our minds on a scarce life – a clock of nothing – we’d always be in want. We’d want more minutes or moments or memories, and we’d quickly take and take and take with so much fear that we’d grab – fast and furious – until our hands were clenched so tightly that the sand couldn’t slip through the cracks. It would build up until the glass burst, and we’d cry. We’d cry because there was so much and we never noticed. We’d cry because it was always there.

It cannot be abundant.

It cannot be scarce.

Abundantly scarce, it seems, is the hardest, messiest, most beautifully designed way.

  • I love this idea of “abundantly scarce” because it’s an “and” rather than an “either/or”. We think so much in black & white, this or that. We crave certainty – it is “this”.

    But so much of life is living in a liminal space between here and there. A messiness where we have left but we haven’t yet arrived.

    Between abundance and scarcity. Both abundance and scarcity.

    I felt a clutch and a pull at the heartstrings reading about you thinking about how many fewer times you have to cut up strawberries. I know it’s SUCH a cliche but it does go by quickly. My girl is almost 9 and it seems like yesterday that she was Bee’s age. There’s a lot of letting go that happens as our kids age. They need us but they need us in different and new ways. What worked as a parent yesterday is suddenly ineffective today. We have an ongoing relationship with someone who is growing and evolving and changing.

    Same yet also different. Another “and”.

  • It’s a paradox, right?Concepts that live within the same space even though you think they shouldn’t. All is shaded by what you put it up against. Tiny moment, huge life or huge life, tiny moment. Perspective with some salt …and strawberries. I never bemoan one day with my children because if I’m not present enough today, I make double sure I am tomorrow. And I will keep my eyes open to enjoy their every phase as I fold it into the recipe that is the pie in my heart.
    Erin, Lovely musings from a lovely lady and wonderful writer! And Mama no doubt.
    Love,
    Shalagh

    • Oh Shalagh, you are so kind. Thank you for this truly beautiful encouragement. You’re a gift!

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