Space; the illusion of our life is that it is filled with an expanse of time and space and that each is meant to be filled. But what is space? What makes the idea of space, of quiet mind, of the artfulness of space, the whiteness around a page of letters, the arc of sky that holds the flower aloft, what makes it seem a void that needs filling?
We see it as empty, a blank mind is empty of thought, originality, a blank canvas is a space waiting for paint, a blank page waiting for the words to fill it up, a blank room devoid of possessions.
Space and time are often spoke of together as if one is not complete without the other, but time is conventional, a construct, we see seasons pass and we state that time is marching on, but time is linear, a straight arrow forward, the seasons come of their own, when they are ready, at their own call of nature. Space is neither a construct nor an object, neither a linear progression forward nor a place. Space is a reckoning of our true self, a white space of truth. When we can be alone with space, the de-cluttered mind, the blank wall, the beauty of a single blossom against the blue, blue sky, we can then begin to understand. And what we understand is that space is the shape of everything.
Writing is not about the words, the black squiggly lines whose shapes, agreed upon by generations before us of meaning, sitting on the page waiting for our logical mind to assembly them into the story, this is not writing. Writing is about being alone with the self, sitting in silence in the room, looking at a blank wall, seeing a blank empty future and allowing it to fill us, to assemble itself around the story that was already there. Space is like the block of marble, we only remove of it what is not the statue, the rest remains, retains the shape of things, holds the volumes of words where once there was space, not empty but filled, not devoid of meaning, but too full to grasp.
Space is not an outward place longing to be filled, but an inner dwelling waiting to be known.