Emptying the Bowl

Lately, my house has looked a bit like a staging area.

There are seed packets on the dining room table, gardening gloves by the front door, and several bags waiting for their next home through ThredUp, Goodwill, Facebook Marketplace, or Buy Nothing. A stack of books sits by the stairs, destined for donation. The cats, meanwhile, seem delighted by the steady rearrangement of household geography.

To an outside observer, it might look a little chaotic.

And perhaps it is.

Over the past few weeks, I've found myself clearing shelves, sorting papers, and finally letting go of things that have loudly occupied space in my home—and on my mental Marie Kondo-inspired to-do list—for years.

Years ago, in university—and more recently, in a Yale course on Coursera—I was reminded of a basic principle of physics: two objects cannot occupy the same space at the same time.

I've begun to wonder if something similar is true in life.

We often speak about beginnings as though they arrive neatly and on schedule. We clear the clutter, set intentions, choose a word for the year, and expect the next chapter to begin on cue.

Increasingly, though, I'm learning that new seasons require room—and that making that room is itself part of the work.

But space alone is not always enough.

As eager as many of us are to move on to the next thing, life doesn't always promote us simply because we're ready. Sometimes there is still a lesson to learn exactly where we are.

Not everything can be Marie Kondo'ed away.

Perhaps this is why certain seasons seem to linger longer than we would like.

Clearing the deck. Cleaning the slate. Emptying the bowl.

Not because we know exactly what is coming next, but because we trust that there will eventually be a next. (Yes, my fingers are crossed.)

Perhaps some seasons are meant less for arriving and more for preparing.

Class, it seems, is still in session.