A Toast to Emptiness

I've had the kind of week that leaves you scraping the bottom of your barrel. I'm out of creativity. I'm out of capacity to deal with complex emotions. I'm quite literally out of space in my inbox. I'm out of patience for other people's shit. I'm out of laundry soap (and therefore dangerously close to being out of underwear). I'm out of oatmeal. I'm out of time. I'm out of me.

I've spent it all.

And it occurred to me this morning while binging on cinnamon rolls and cracking overtired jokes with my coworkers that maybe what follows is the sweet spot.

Knowing that tonight--after seriously kicking butt at work and contributing to something bigger than I ever thought possible, after a four-hour jam session co-writing something inspiring with three brilliant people, and the subsequent panic that ensues to get every. detail. just. right.--I get to exhale. After managing to fit in a few work outs I still feel in my tush, a few pep talks for others, a lot of cuddles for a needy puppy who just wants to be near her mama--after managing all that, I get to dissolve into the quiet space of my cozy apartment, cook myself whatever meal I dream up, and toast a well-earned cider to myself. A toast to emptiness.

Because emptiness affords you the chance to fill up again. Tonight brings 8 (or, really, let's be real, more like 11) hours of sleep. Tonight brings affection from the aforementioned love monster, who will greet me with a wagging tail and an entire day's worth of anticipation and kisses. Tonight brings clean sheets and tea and a brand new book (thanks, me, good looking out). Tonight brings solitude and centeredness and grace.

Tomorrow brings friendship and shopping for tights and a phenomenon heretofore known as Crockpot Crafternoon. Tomorrow brings laughter and spirit and probably a fair amount of snark. Tomorrow brings gratitude, and encouraging words, and community.

Next week promises more opportunity to use an intricate balance of words and psychology to engage people to give money to shut down a horrible, horrible disease. It brings more opportunity to honor my aunt and my grandpas and everyone else whose suffering amounts to a lot more than just the emotional fatigue resulting from having used all your words. Next week promises drinks with an old coworker and the opportunity to interview an 80-something man who has made substantial contributions to science.

Next weekend promises a little bit of home right in the middle of Chicago. The weekend after that promises comfort on a direct flight in from Colorado. Thanksgiving promises dates with so many of my people, chilly hikes in the Peninsula, and warm soul food cooked by my mama and my crazy aunts. Home promises jokes and hugs from my dad and arm-punches-turned-bearhugs from my brotherbear.

Being empty isn't so bad when you know what will fill you. Cheers, to pit stops and knowing that the inhale is always sweeter after a long, slow exhale.