I was thinking of that old saying of a glass half-filled with water and the optimist seeing the glass half full and the pessimist seeing the glass half empty, but really the same contents were inside. I’m sure you’ve heard it many times yourself. Sometimes when we hear something too much, we cease to hear it anymore, even if someone is yelling it. But what if instead of a glass of water it was a body of life?
There is a body and it’s half-filled. There are tears inside along with sorrow. There are disappointments and losses and death. But there is also laughter. There are smiles and triumphs and love and hope. It’s all mixed into one and it can’t be separated, but it can be focused upon and this is what most of us do every day.
There’s a man standing to the side watching you as you watch your half-filled body. He wants you to focus on the negative things because when you do that, you get very busy and very tired and very quiet. So he shows you many pictures of terrible things, and with the pictures he gives you terrible sounds. There is crying and gnashing of teeth and rage and violence. And though you may try to turn your head, he puts the photos and the wailing in whichever direction you turn. Around and around you go, 360 degrees in a full circle, and yet there are the photos and the crying and the pain. So you settle in resignedly and focus on the awfulness.
The next day he comes back and finds you and he does the same thing all over again. And again and again.
Your body is half-filled. It contains all the things that have happened to you in your life. The pessimist says the body is half-empty, and that means it’s draining and will soon be desolate, a crumbled shell lying on the floor, devoid of life. The optimist says the body is half-full, and that means there is still a lot more to put inside. Some of it will be sorrowful and grievous, but some of it will be joyful and loving and filled with hope and laughter. And it won’t be devoid of life. On the contrary: It will be stuffed right full of it. No crumpled shell. A tired shell, perhaps. A painful shell, at times, yes. But a shell full of possibilities.
You have half a body left to fill up or to drain as you please. The man standing on the side doesn’t want you to fill it. He wants you to think there’s nothing to fill it with. He wants you to think the world is dark and dangerous and empty so that you won’t put any more life in your body. He wants all the wonderful things for himself. Even though there’s plenty to go around for everyone and then some—including him—he still doesn’t want you to have any of it. So he uses the pictures and the sounds and the flashing lights and the hypnotism.
How do you stop it? You begin by not looking at the pictures anymore. Close your eyes. You don’t listen to the hideous sounds anymore. Put your hands over your ears. You tune it out, turn it off. Then comes a fog . . . Which way do you go? You walk away in the opposite direction, and you trust yourself. You might not see the field full of flowers yet, but you keep going and you trust yourself, eyes closed and ears blocked, because anything is better than the constant sorrow from the puppet master in the corner.
You start small, with tiny things. It doesn’t matter if you haven’t got any money. It doesn’t matter if you find yourself impoverished in spirit and house. You begin again with tiny things. You do the things you’ve always wanted to do . . . . someday. You learn that language, that musical instrument. You plant that garden, or maybe just start with one pot of herbs. You paint that picture and sing that song. You learn that craft.
You start over. You make your life again from scratch. Your body is not half empty. It’s half full, and there’s a lot more to give it. It doesn’t matter if the things you give it are humble and simple. They’re your humble and simple things, and that makes them beautiful. If he comes after you again—and he will—you know what to do. Avert your eyes. Put your hands over your ears. Walk away from the lie of the half-empty body.
This is what he did not want you to know. You start with tiny things. You build slowly. Ignore what people say you can and cannot do. And then . . . just watch what happens. Just watch.
