I awake this morning to a leaden, pre-storm sky, not yet light, the room silent but for my sleeping husband’s quiet breathing. The holiday season over, the work of this new year not yet begun, I gaze out the window near our bed, studying the dark shadows of the mountains beyond and searching for the right word to put to my feelings.
Melancholic. Yes, a little.
We said good-bye to Jack yesterday, knowing it will be early June before he’s home again. The departure of a grown child, even to a life he loves and thrives in, always brings with it a quick, sharp pang of parting. And although it’s only January 3 by the calendar, I’m more aware of endings at this moment than new beginnings. The year ahead will hold unexpected blessings, certainly, but there will undoubtedly be heartbreak, too. The poignance of more comings and goings, changes and transformations, as well as more permanent losses. And my soul, anticipating, has already shouldered some of that grief.
Tired. That, too.
It’s been a tough few weeks. First there was all the bustle and preparation of Christmas, the shopping and cooking and cleaning, the care taken to uphold our traditions, to create a special season, a lovely day, a whole series of delectable meals. And then, no sooner was the holiday ushered out and the house set to rights, than we found ourselves entertaining an uninvited guest. Jack and I, and our neighbor Debbie, were all knocked flat within the same hour by a violent intestinal bug. Instead of the movies and dinners, winter hikes, and family activities I’d envisioned for the wide-open days after Christmas, we shared a catalog of unspeakable symptoms, trips to the ER, twin IVs, slow recoveries. Tired is an understatement.
Gratitude. Of course, always.
In the midst of our sickness, Steve and Henry leapt to the rescue, cleaning bathrooms and running loads of wash, making countless trips up and down the stairs with buckets and rags, glasses of Pedialyte, cups of tea, stacks of Saltines. My friend Maude brought ginger ale and homemade turkey soup and healing potions. We were well nursed and yesterday, finally, six days into the ordeal, our bellies rumbled once again with hunger. (I was so sure I’d feed Jack up while he was home and send him back to school carrying a few more pounds on his tall, lean frame; instead, I’m pretty sure he’s had to tighten his belt another notch.)
And so, perhaps it’s fitting somehow that the word I finally land on to describe my inner state is this one: Empty.
It’s not just that my innards have been thoroughly scoured this week, although I’m definitely feeling emptied in a physical way. But my spirit feels as if it’s been poured out, too. I am in need of sustenance of every kind — soul food and real food, replenishment both spiritual and literal.
Later, after the breakfast dishes are done and Steve and Henry have left for the day, I pull my worn, well-read copy of Gift from the Sea from the bedroom shelf. I’m not even surprised when the book falls open to the very passage I’ve come in search of:
“Traditionally we are taught, and instinctively we long, to give where it is needed – and immediately. Eternally, woman spills herself away in driblets to the thirsty, seldom being allowed the time, the quiet, the peace, to let the pitcher fill up to the brim.”
Yes. How satisfying it is to see another’s need and to meet it, quietly, without a fuss. How swift I am to find my own purpose in easing the way for someone else. Indeed, the more uncertain I’m feeling about myself, the more insistently I ask, “How can I be useful here?” Simply answering the question reveals the path forward.
But as we all know, it’s easier to give to others than to ourselves. Easier to spill our energies than to replenish them. Easier to quench another’s thirst than to acknowledge our own.
Today is a day to fill my pitcher to the brim. I turn up the heat, start the dishwasher, and sit down in the kitchen, a stack of books and notes at my side. I read a few more pages of Ann Morrow Lindbergh, grateful as always for this uncanny sense of kinship that transcends time and space, amazed that a woman writing before I was born remains so vibrantly alive in my imagination, as if she is herself a trusted friend, nearby, ready at any moment to whisper straight into my heart.
“I do not believe that suffering teaches,” Anne insists. “If suffering alone taught, all the world would be wise, since everyone suffers. To suffering must be added mourning, understanding, patience, love, openness, and the willingness to remain vulnerable.”
Yes, again.
Her words remind me: there is no escape from the reality of things falling apart. “Everyone suffers.” The choice I have, the only choice really, is to plumb the possibilities for growth and healing even in the midst of pain. And growth can’t happen in the dark. Growth requires sunlight, water, care, and space. Healing doesn’t occur in a vacuum. Healing goes hand in hand with allowing, accepting, softening.
Filling the pitcher means taking time — time to reflect, to rest, to read poetry, to look at beautiful art, to get lost in a novel, to walk through the woods at dusk, to sift through thoughts and feelings and to make room for all of them. Grief and joy, fear and courage, despair and hope.
I close the book, turn off my laptop, and set all of my things aside. It is indeed both wisdom and solace I’m thirsty for; these are the qualities with which I long to fill my pitcher. But perhaps on a cold, sere January morning, “empty” is not a bad place to be.
Emptiness is also readiness. Emptiness is potential. Emptiness is a space swept bare. Emptiness is a willingness to sit here very quietly, for as long as it takes, allowing things to be just as they are.
Katrina You seem so sad these last few writings…as if you feel like life is over. Just because the boys are adults does not mean that. I find it so gratifying to see and spend time with my grandchildren and other friends and I take solace in the fact that although “mother” is not my primary role my usefulness to others and to myself is not less just different. I hope that you will find that space and place.
Trish, I guess I do have to acknowledge that sadness. It’s not about my sons, however, who are both thriving. A dear, close, long-time friend is gravely ill, and although I treasure every moment of our time together, it’s hard to witness a loved one’s suffering. I’m glad to be a part of her daily life, to be helpful, and to support her and her family in every way I can. No denying the sadness, though, intertwined with gratitude for all we’ve shared.
Beautiful words in a cold and dark time of year. I love the way you are framing the state of being empty–not barren, but open space.
I can only reply over, and over and over again how wonderful I think you are. How poignant and timely your posts always come to me. I just came across this latest, whilst sitting down to a much appreciated cup of tea as the darkness settles in. I am awaiting the return of my husband who has just taken both of our sons back to their respective schools. As there has been some freezing rain today, I am just a little anxious to see the car lights pull into our drive.
I am also feeling a little sadness, having my sons both come and gone once again, even though I still have two daughters here with me, I feel the time fleeting.
The hustle and bustle of the holiday season now safely packed away for another year.
Still recovering from two months of feeling unwell and subsequent surgery leading up Christmas.
All of this combined today to leave me feeling ….
yes, just about as perfectly as you have described here.
Thank you for this Katrina, and always for sharing your beautiful soul, and for once again – reading mine <3
YES!!!
Thank you
This is so beautiful.
Feeling that same sadness after the great togetherness of the holidays-so much contentment-the inevitable partings and reliance on our own selves again for awhile-not nearly as fun…we give ourselves a good talking to and let the emptiness take over for awhile…and treasure those times…and feel lucky to have had them again.
I wish we were neighbors Katrina so I could give you a hug, share a cup of tea in the morning, a walk whenever, and a glass of wine…anytime! Namaste!
Katrina, once again it’s as if you’ve seen right into my own heart. There was a poignancy to this Christmas season that left me feeling scarred and weary. We were here alone, our son and grandson at their own home far away, and I couldn’t help but feel a sense of loss and disconnection for the spirit of the season. I was sick too, and one of my dogs has not been well. Much care has been required.
I was glad to see the New Year arrive, because with it comes a chance to shake off the traces of sadness and illness and embrace hope and new possibility. I know you have the deep sadness that comes from watching a friend suffer and fearing the outcome. I wish you all strength and enduring hope as you live the days to come.
Katrina,
I’m sorry to hear what a rough couple of weeks you’ve had. I’m glad Steve and Henry and dear Maude were able to help you and Jack recover from that hard-hitting intestinal bug.
I, too, have long admired Anne Morrow Lindbergh’s perennial grace and wisdom. I agree with her that women too often deny themselves the time, the quiet, and the peace necessary to replenish their depleted energies.
May this time of emptiness be fruitful. May it renew within you a gentle acquiescence to life’s ebb and flow and help you rediscover a quiet joy that dispels grief, a courage that deflects fear, and a love that blossoms strong and hopeful and ever-beautiful.
I’m sending prayers for all your special intentions, a hug for your weary heart, and so much love. Peace and all good~ xox
Katrina,
Your writing continues to speak to me on a core level. My son is going back to college in a couple of weeks after his winter break. He is in his first year, and I am anticipating the poignant and bittersweet goodbye. He is thriving and doing well, but I still want to keep him close and smell his hair after a shower.
Thank you for reframing the emptiness of the post-holiday doldrums. Certainly you are right when you say that the empty space allows for the potential of what is to come, and that gives me hope.
You have a keen ability to write exactly what I need, and I thank you for that.
All the best in the new year.
So many times I’ve come to your site in that tired and empty state and filled up on your words. I wish I could send you some solace via these inter-webs, but solitude and self-compassion sound best, and you already know that.
You quote my favorite passage from Hour of Gold, Hour of Lead. “The willingness to remain vulnerable” sounds exhausting at times. It reminds me do Wordsworth’s lines about how nothing can bring back the hour of slender in the grass, the glory in the flower, but we find strength in what remains behind.
And on a lighter note, a walk with my dog, even in the snowy hills of our Denver home, have been the best lift to my spirits these days.
Thanks for sharing your journey.
Katrina, I echo what the others have said before me. Your words say exactly what I have been feeling these past few weeks. Thank You for your honesty. I am going to take down my Gift from the Sea book today and read it again.
Deirdre-I agree that a walk with my dog brings me joy just when I need it!
Katrina, thank you for sharing your honest, deep emotions – in such a strange way, it helps me to move past the same emptiness I feel. I’m just a few steps behind you in parenting, and have one more week with my daughter before she leaves to go back to college. I spent the last 11 days sick, dreams of the time with her absolutely altered. So grateful was I that she was near, but so sad that this time of sinking into stillness and self-care had to interfere with her precious time home. I keep hearing the phrase “It is what it is” over and over in my mind, and find it somehow comforting as I fight the frustration over what I think it should be. Sending you much love and gratitude for you and your exquisite writing.
Emptiness is everything; everything is empty. And yet, completely full already. That’s what’s hard to see, but if we sit still and look long enough, we will. Welcome back to life.
Your words always speak to me. Thank you.
Happy New Year, Katrina!
I am sorry to hear the latter part of your holiday was overcome by illness. A dear friend of mine and her family who also live in an area near you also were suffering as such about the same time. It was a nasty strain for sure! Two Christmases ago, my family and I had it over Christmas itself. That was one for the books! Not fun! Anyhow, glad some family time and holiday time was still had and enjoyed prior. I, once again, love your reflections here. I always have such mixed feelings coming into the new year but it’s contemplations are so necessary as is the need to “begin again” no matter where life finds us at that time. We are all in this together and we hope you continue to feel appreciated for the ways in which you always so eloquently put this business of living to words. You never cease to bring joy, understanding, comfort, strength, and insight. I feel so blessed to have you in my life! Thank you and I wish you everything you are wishing for in this new year!
Katrina, well spoken again. I share your sentiment. You need to hear music to help move on. Try some Brandenburg Concerti, always uplifting. Did you know Bach never heard them performed in his lifetime? The Gift from the Sea is a primer for all women! Sorta an owner’s manual! I read it at least 1 time a year and always find something new.
Katrina, it never fails to amaze me how many of us share the very same feelings at any given time. I described this entire Christmas season as melancholic as well, and yet there were many happy moments contained in it. There are no less than 4 people in my close circle who are facing life threatening illnesses (one wasn’t supposed to even SEE Christmas, yet he remains with us). A dear friend lost her sister AND her father. Our church was robbed on Christmas Day and we lost a significant amount of our year’s much-needed revenue. Open the newspaper or look at the internet headlines – enough said. Pretty hard not to feel empty.
We are at the point of having our grown children return to their post-holiday lives as well, and I am also looking forward to that respite before rejoining my own routine. The grayness of most of these past few days matches my mood, and I look forward to a bright, clear, cold winter day to remind me that things will work out, somehow. That will be followed by the promise of warmer, happier days to come. New life.
I hope that you are feeling better and regaining your strength. I pray that your spirits are buoyed by knowing that you are not alone in your feelings, and that working through the valleys of life always leads us toward the peaks. Thank you for always sharing your thoughts so beautifully. You are such a gift to those of us who are lucky enough to have found you. Hope that 2015 is filled with love, good health, and much, much happiness.
This is so beautiful, Katrina. Unsurprisingly, perhaps, I feel the same potent sense of kinship with Gift from the Sea, and turn to it often. I’m sorry about the bug and hope that the emptiness – of the body, of the spirit, of the heart – is filled up before long (though knowing you as I do, I imagine some pockets of emptiness will always remain, and that is okay). xox
I always relate to what you say, and this time I identify even more closely. I am developing an online course for my students around this subject of doing so much for others and having so little left for the Self. Thank you for the beautiful words.
How you describe your relationship with Anne is how I feel about you. Many times during the day I will pause and think about the gift of this ordinary day. I also look at my views and have your words in my head. Your words help give beauty to those ordinary moments.
thank you.
Thank you for your articulation of things I feel and haven’t even been aware enough to have acknowledged. The comments your readers post are also inspiring. What a tide of emotion and perspective middle age plus allows one to feel. To be be aware and able to share it with such a beautiful community makes life that much more rich.
Your post reminded me of “The Guest House” by Rumi. Thank you for sharing your thoughts so openly including the sadness you feel.
Thank you Katrina for sharing your thoughts and feelings. You have such a beautiful way to clarify and make sense of the emotions that I too am having at this time of year. My two boys were home for the holidays as well, and have since returned to their respective “homes”. What a kindred spirit we women in middle age are! I so love your posts!
Reading your posts are always therapeutic and they always seem to mirror my life at the moment. I so appreciate your sharing your life with us. Over the holidays, we visited two very dear friends who have cancer, one terminal. We also found out that two of our other friends have cancer as well. It is overwhelming. All we can do is support them, share with them and try to be a comfort. As I tried to finally take the time to deal with my own issues today, my daughter called me sobbing uncontrollably. She’d just had a major car accident, skidding on the ice into another car. When I finally managed to calm her down, I was able to ascertain that she and the man involved in the accident
were not injured. A car is just a machine and is repairable. This new year, I feel that I have much to be grateful for.
I have so many thoughts as I read through your words. I share similar thoughts going through the holidays and always feel melancholy even during the exciting moments with family which I appreciate more with every year that passes. I want to respond more fully to your post, but for now I wanted to mention that each holiday season there is something special that happens unexpectedly that turns into a wonderful memory. This year it was a piano concert by Robin Spielburg in Natick, MA on the first Sunday in December. It is the first time I have heard her, and am so happy that a dear friend asked me to join her. She also lent me all of Robin’s cd’s that she has purchased over the years to enjoy and I have fallen in love with the music. I was aware sitting and listening to her at the concert of being in the exact place where I wanted to be on a busy, pre-holiday afternoon.
Anyway, I do hope that you are feeling so much better and are taking care during these very cold, dark winter days. Let’s hope for a Patriots’ win on Saturday!!
Hi Katrina
Reaching you was pure chance. Reading your writing has brought so much peace to my troubled soul. My brother lost lost his only child, aged 29 years, in a horrific car accident. I hope no parent has to ever go through this! The parents are inconsolable. Went down for the funeral, am yet to get over the shock. The pain is so intense – writing it seems so hard! Hope time will ease the pain…
I awoke early this morning unable to sleep any longer, filled with angst and worry about several things. Sat down to meditate and ended up crying through the entie session. Then I sat down to check my email. You were right on point for me today as you frequently are. Thank you for letting me know I am not alone. And for reminding me to find my copy of Gift from the Sea and read it again!
Katrina, I’m sorry your post-Christmas hopes were dashed with the bug (it hit me in early December, so I know how miserable you were). But I so admire being able to find the perspective. Yes, Anne L. reminded you, but somehow, I think you would have figured that one out on your own.
That sense of gratitude is indeed powerful and so, too, is the kindness of those who simply “do” when we cannot. So very glad you are “regrouping” and with that empty canvas can paint wonderful things.
Love how you weave in the wonderful Anne Morrow Lindbergh into your post.
I feel like you are definitely kindred spirits. Gift from the Sea is one of my all time favorite books, and yours are on the same shelf right next to it. Thanks for the reminder to take care of ourselves first once in awhile.
If only we could have a women’s retreat on Captiva Island like dear Anne once did!
thank you….words for January… i need…an empty pitcher i am too…thank you
So beautiful, true and to the heart. Your words speak to my soul. You have an amazing craft of taking the ordinary, and transforming it into something extraordinary.
Thank you Katrina.
Katrina, you have such a touching, profound way of precisely putting feelings into words. Your candor and honesty is so refreshing and I always find myself needing a second read to absorb it all…and find myself saving a quote that particularly speaks to me. Thank you for your writing. I think it’s good for you and for us!
I love your books and posts, Katrina, and have shared them with my friends and daughters. I feel a close kinship with you and your experiences. I have read
Anne Morrow Lindbergh’s “Gifts from the Sea” at different stages of my life and have found such inspiration no matter my age. Prayers for your friend and you as you go through this time with her. What a gift you are to her.
Katrina,
I am writing some your words in my planner so that I can see and reflect on them often. Filling my pitcher is often neglected and this year I would like to pay more attention to keeping it full, taking the time I need to rest, reflect and relax. Relaxing is my challenge, I have discovered that I am nearly always in a state of stress and anxiety, waiting for the next shoe to drop. I am more aware of the state of my mind and body these days and find myself continually checking the tenseness of my muscles, especially my face/jaw, and encouraging myself to relax, to let go. Walking while thinking and praying, talking with God is one way that helps me reflect and relax. Also, yoga is helpful as well. Writing this is helping discover where my focus needs to be for the coming year. Thank you.
Oh, Ms. Kenison.
How my heart (and eyes) filled when I read how you feel about Anne Morrow Lindbergh… Because you are THAT for ME. Thank you for the kinship I feel with you, for paving the path just a few steps ahead of me, for reassuring me and teaching me and making me FEEL, just as Anne M.L. does for you. (Well, and I cherish her, too…).
Today is grey and I just dashed home from church to pick up something necessary my oldest son forgot, and I have been ANGRY and RED-filled over trivial things my husband forgot to do, so I decided to play hooky a few minutes longer before going back, and sit and let myself read a few beloved blogs, and this. Just this. This post. It has helped to fill me, de-red me, just a little bit. Thank you.
Your gift of words captures what I feel so much more succinctly than I can. Thank you.
Oh my. You were really sick!! I feel the same way you describe after being ill. It’s so jarring for me to be down for the count and to not be the one running up and down the stairs. Yet, time to heal is always such a blessing, which you capture so brilliantly with your words, as you always do. I echo what Emily says – you are the writer we all turn to for wisdom and beauty.
I read, and how well I understand. Sending you love.