Empty Spaces
The holidays can be unbelievably hard. It’s kind of amazing that such a joyous time of year, with family, food, traditions and gift giving…could be anything short of amazing, isn’t it? And yet, somehow, the celebrations have a tinge of something else. Something not even present. Something that we can’t quite put our finger on but can feel down into our bones. Something that has slippery way of turning these special days into a feeling of chaos.
Maybe it’s the simple things: too much food, too many sweets, not enough people helping, or just too much to do and not enough time to get it done. Or maybe it’s more complicated: extensive travel frustrations, the one aunt that always complains, the feeling like you are the only one that cares, or the stress of actually having to be at the table with some complicated relationships.
I don’t know what it is for you and you may be working on that one as well, but some thoughts that swell for me, are around staying present in each moment, and being able to organize all the thoughts and feelings we have during the holidays to actually take what we like, and leave the rest.
Personally, my focus on empty spaces took hold of me for many years. I don’t think I knew enough to name it that at the time, but I know for sure now, that it was true and am hoping if I can share this perspective, maybe you can rearrange your lens this year too.
When I arrive at the Thanksgiving table this year, I am acutely aware that it has been 7 years since mom was here to sit with us. I can still see her tiny body and perfect face barely able to make eye contact as she floated around the kitchen trying to prep all the food. The amazing smells wafting through the air, the buzzing of doors opening and everyone gathering in the kitchen with welcome hugs.
Yet this time, again, we have done the preparing. And while all the smells are there, gently coating the room with love and tradition, she is missing.
Her missing comes up in waves, lifting way out of the sea and overtaking me by surprise. I don’t try to go under it or attempt to jump over. Instead, I try to memorize it, imprint it into my being, yearn for it to stay longer. I can feel her with me in those moments and I often practice deep concentration to keep her there. But the wave has its own pattern and flattens back into its surroundings as it does and as it should. Never staying long enough. Not that I enjoy the missing part, it’s just that the missing and togetherness do come at one time…so I take what I like.
This year, (after years of personal inventory work) I decide to flip the switch on empty spaces. How hard could it be? I am blessed to have an ever-growing, yet small and intimate family, that enjoys time with one another and loves real conversation. I know I can simply start by keeping my vision on my mom dancing her way around the kitchen, then gently seating herself at the end of the table. Recalling my dad’s yearly gratitude speech and mom having something short, sweet, yet profound to offer.
It is then that I wonder when we stopped beginning a family meal with that gratitude speech? I wondered if we were too afraid to speak for mom or about mom, for fear we would crack the seal that has taken years to build. The light seal that gently covered our broken heart, not mending it, but keeping it in one place. Steady enough to carry on and continue the love as we do.
I couldn’t help but think our silence was perpetuating this focus on empty spaces. I mean, if she is not here, and we do not speak of her, doesn’t that keep the space empty?
I wanted to share something thoughtful with my family, but had some fears around breaking the code of silence. Was there a new code about our grief? Or did we just stop talking, so we could just stop crying? I didn’t have the answer but decided to take the words of my moms best friend who stated, “You are the matriarch now. Stand in that joy.”
And here is what I wrote and share, because I needed to hear it and hoped that others needed to hear it as well.
“I love today. I love that we have leaned into thanksgiving Saturdays because the only thing that mattered to us was being together, not the day we celebrated it. That we alleviated the choices of whose family to be with on Thanksgiving, so we could have what mattered most…the best chance of filling the table and being together.
Empty spaces. I used to count the empty spaces. A continuous checklist of who wasn’t here. Analyzing and over analyzing the reasons given and wondered who just didn’t want to be here. Or rather, who didn’t pick me, who else would feel not chosen, and how I would smooth out everyone else’s feeling around this madness in my mind. Was that ever my job or just an over embellished sense of self that I could make others feel better?
In order to fully appreciate any one moment this holiday season, let’s get present and enjoy it just as it is.
Dad calls often. He asks for the head count. Is he asking about chairs and place settings or is he looking for verification of who is choosing us this year? I hear him asking for the count. But my heart feels there is more, like it is a loaded question, even when it isn’t.
‘Give me your head count,’ he says.
My heart pounds in response and I do some simple math quickly, just to be sure. I don’t take the question lightly and I don’t give rounded numbers, for fear of there being empty seats. He doesn’t want empty seats, is what I think and I don’t want empty seats at the table either. So I make sure to get the number right.
Dad prefers one big table, so we all feel connected. He also prefers an even number, but maybe that is just his chronic humor. And then sometimes, he leaks his worries…about the day we are too busy. The day when our family’s grow too big to travel or show up. He worries that next year not everyone will choose us. That there will be too many empty seats.
I get that. I have spent many days, maybe years, worrying about who wouldn’t be here and how I would explain it to myself or others asking questions.
But not today. Today I know better and do better.
I channel mom on my crash course of switch-flipping empty spaces.
I can hear her whisper, ‘Lean into the curve. Let the number be the number, just for today. Accidental empty seats might be a reminder that we have miscounted. Or that we are surrounded by even more love, some that just couldn’t be here today.’
Looking around at our Thanksgiving table, I see that we got the number right. We made it here again and all 15 chairs are filled, and that is what mom would have seen. Even though she didn’t like too many parties, or too many people at one time, she loved family. Even on days when she would have preferred some quiet time, she just loved this family.
She wasn’t one to count the empty chairs, instead she counted her blessings. And this was definitely the day to do that. We are so lucky to have each other and I don’t have to hope we never forget that. I know that we never will. Because once you have a love like this, you always have a love like this…one you will take into all the other loves in your life. Even if it’s the one year you can’t make it.
I am beginning to see that when I don’t live in empty space, I can be profoundly present in each moment, no matter what is going on around me.
And as for mom…I thought that instead of burying the pain we felt down deep, we could recall our greatest memory of her and keep her spirit alive by acknowledging that she has touched all of us in some perfect way…A way that has helped us become who we are today and who we want to be tomorrow.
What will you do differently this year so you can fully appreciate the filled chairs, with no empty spaces?