The Gift of Space

There’s something I didn’t appreciate or truly understand in my 20s that I understand now.

Space.

And I mean that in every sense of the word. Space in my day, space in my brain, my heart, my relationships. Just… space.

I used to move fast. I would go from one place to the next, visiting one friend after another. I moved at least once a year and changed jobs more times than I can count. I could not sit still. In hindsight, I think I was just too scared of things not working out, so I would leave before they could fall apart. I masked it in being “free-spirited” and “following my intuition,” but the truth is, I was deeply avoidant and uncomfortable with the vulnerability of commitment.

The irony was, I was a meditation teacher.

It’s like the saying, “the cleaner has the messiest house on the block.” Me, the meditation teacher, had the most unsettled innards of anyone I knew. I was constantly moving, constantly planting seeds and then leaving before I could ever see them grow. It was exhausting, and it was sad.

This constant motion left no space. No room to come up for air, although I didn’t know I needed any at the time. I don’t think I would have been able to tolerate it. When I would “meditate” back then, it was more of an act than a genuine sitting with myself. I understood the concepts well enough to teach them, but I didn’t realize I wasn’t actually doing what I was teaching others to do. For me, meditation became a place to check out, to turn everything off. The moment I would stop, all the unsettled feelings would come rushing back in.

I think that’s really common—the concept of the ego meditating. As if to say, “Look at me meditating,” instead of, “Look at me thinking while I’m meditating.” Spirituality and meditation can so easily become just another costume, another identity to wear.

Now, I crave things to move slow. I crave the exhale. I crave watching the leaves move in the wind, the water flowing over the rocks in the creek, just watching the clouds in the sky. When I finally allowed myself to sit in the space, it was very uncomfortable at first. I didn’t know how to be still. But eventually, what I found there was stillness. A deep, inner core stillness. The kind that makes you want to find God. It felt sacred. It felt like home.

This is the gift of unbecoming. The space. When you’re not holding onto everything you think you need to be, or everything you think you are, there’s just… space. And then the real question kicks in.

When you’re not holding onto all of that effort, what do you do with the space that becomes available? Do you immediately want to fill it? Or can you swim in it? Can you let yourself breathe? Can you slow down enough to notice the way the sun hits the leaves?

What exists in the space?

Just notice and see. And then keep noticing. And noticing again. Sit in it. Let it cleanse you of the noise.