Out Pouring
I often find the kenotic theories of Christian theology tedious, but I have always loved the word anyway- kenōsis - from the later Greek, meaning “self-emptying.”
And because I am living through late-stage capitalism where all sacred labors are stolen and exploited for profit I have come to move away from the language of “emptying” - it is too close now to the depletion that is the result of ruthless exploitation. Now, I think instead, of pouring out. A heavy bucket, overfull, spilling its contents out with some nurturing or cleansing effect.
I’ve emptied out before, loved too many people, too hard, with too much urgency and anxiety. Until I hollowed out my bone marrow and my central nervous system went up in smoke.
That isn’t pouring out. That is burning up. That is a big old hole in the ground, or leaky bucket that can never be filled and can’t pour out anything for anyone. That was me, giving out of my guilt, fear, my over-responsibility, my distorted savioristic belief that it was my job, my assignment to save everyone I could even if it used every last drop of my strength.
And that if I didn’t, no one else would.
I didn’t know that I believed that. If you’d asked me I would have told you I certainly did not agree with that at all. But still, the belief lurked, beneath awareness, an unexamined premise, an inescapable rule of living. And then of course, cancer showed me exactly and how harmful that kind of emptying is to everyone involved.
Self-emptying, with an emphasis on the self, treating my self as if I was an infinite, inexhaustible resource. Each day I woke and dug a great hole in the earth. Every evening and day off I then exerted just as much effort at self-care - shoveling the heavy dirt back into the hole - so that I could empty it all out again the next day.
Pouring out is lovelier than that. Pouring out can only occur when we have been filled - or have the luxury of noticing when we have been filled - by something other, larger, greater than our own will and effort. It requires that I pay close attention to the fleeting moments when my heart is full, and to allow myself to, even briefly, bask in receiving.
I’ve learned a lot about various obstructions to receiving: There are of course systemic, and institutional obstacles, some of them insurmountable, that actively block so many from receiving what they need and yearn for. But there are internal obstacles too. My own habits tended toward returning to dirty wells in search of clean water. I hoped to receive from others in some way that might make up for what “I” had given out. This quest toward some kind of energetic mutuality in relationships, some kind of balance or quid pro quo, in the face of this self-emptying proved itself to be hopeless one.
The thing I was starved for, the filling up that I seek, can only come from larger sources with greater reserves than myself or any other human being. These “higher powers” appear to me in many forms:
Sometimes they are planetary, galactic, universal, quantum. Sometimes it emerges on a walk in the wilderness, or an encounter with an apex predator more powerful than myself. Other times the encounter with this larger source draws my awareness my toward my infinitesimally tiny position in deep time - all of our ancestors, all that they endured and all that they hoped for. Sometimes it comes from being in relationship to all who will come after me. Sometimes it is the image of all the millions of us on this earth right now, poised at a a terrifying crossroads, struggling with our love and ruthlessness and failing and still struggling.
Sometimes I find it in gods, in myth, in poetry, in creative acts and art works. Sometimes it comes as Uncertainty, as Nothingness, as sunsets, as my children’s laughter, in love itself. Never through one person or group, only through Everyone.
Everythingness.
I think of those I have loved and buried, and I remember their last deep out-pours. An unexpectedly effusive phone call telling me all that I have meant to them. A New Year’s Eve dinner cooked with relish and enthusiasm for others, that they could not themselves eat on their last night on earth. A suicide note insisting it was no one’s fault. A late hospice rally, a ride in through the halls in a wheel chair expressing all their appreciation for a facility that they were previously furious about and afraid of entering.
In this era and time of life I like to listen to the extraordinary out-pourings of elders preparing to leave us soon enough, as they give out every tool, every single strengthening thought or idea that might offer some bit peace or courage to those of us left behind to face unfathomable challenges.
And then I remember: I should be pouring out too.
No more struggles with a leaking bucket or hole in the ground. More and more I try to sit as a hollow bamboo - neither full nor empty - but continuously filling and emptying as life pours in from some infinite source and moves through me (not from me) out into the wider world. The cycle is an eternal one has has little to nothing to do with me at all when all is working as it should. When “I” arrive, when I am caught up in the force of what is flowing into and out of me, ego inflates - and I gum up the works. I forget this all the time and get seduced into believing I should do something to give more or get more, or both. And then I remember again that this all works so much better when I lay as flat and still as possible, let it flow all around me, and stop clogging shit up.
I don’t carry water very far anymore and am too tired to waste time digging holes. Now, all I hope for is to stay out of the way while it all pours out, and pours in, and pours out again.
