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<blockquote data-quote="Scent of Cedar *" data-source="post: 646217" data-attributes="member: 17461"><p>So I was vacuuming and thinking about this. </p><p></p><p>And I kept seeing that empty cup.</p><p></p><p>Burnished metal.</p><p></p><p>Silver.</p><p></p><p>And myself, crawling along behind my child, either child, with my cup, my beggar's cup, in the air. </p><p></p><p>"Please don't do this."</p><p></p><p>And at first, it broke my heart to know that. To know my cup would never have anything in it. I would never have the affirmation, would never have that sense of self and completion and rightness come of basking in the reflections of successful children, <em>of a job well done</em>. I would never know the rich, peculiar taste or catch the scent swirling through the clouds of steam rising from my cup of life because no matter how convincingly I write or think about it, the stupid cup is empty.</p><p></p><p>But then, I had written that paragraph about the intensity of the relationships each of us, at the end of the day, has with our children.</p><p></p><p>And I kept thinking about that.</p><p></p><p>And as I was vacuuming, I realized that in a way, I have a thing, an understanding or a richness or texture or something that though it does not fill my cup, is somehow nourishing enough, nonetheless.</p><p></p><p>And that is what is called drinking from an empty cup.</p><p></p><p>The cup, my cup, is undeniably empty. Shiny empty, the bottom sparkling with brush marks from all the times I have polished it to be ready for the time it would be filled. </p><p></p><p>And yet, I am taking nourishment, am finding sustenance there, rich and real and truer than the filled cup may ever have been.</p><p></p><p>Maybe.</p><p></p><p>Maybe, this is true.</p><p></p><p>And as long as I haven't posted this yet and can always go back and delete this part, I will tell you too what I know about the sound of one hand, clapping.</p><p></p><p>The sound of one hand, clapping</p><p>silent shrieking on the Wind</p><p>Of nightmare dreams and nightmare grapplings</p><p>of prayers unprayed and Prayers, unwrapping</p><p>to gods of muddied spittle, and of tin....</p><p></p><p>To understand that sound of one hand, clapping, we first must acknowledge that in our minds and hearts, there were two hands. Whether both hands were ours, or whether we raised one to make a high five with someone else, we must have been very sure there were two hands.</p><p></p><p>Or we would have thought about doing something other than clapping.</p><p></p><p>Whistling instead, maybe.</p><p></p><p>So to think of clapping is to describe expectation, or the channeling of dreams.</p><p></p><p>It was a reality we were so sure of that to think about making the sound of clapping was no big deal.</p><p></p><p>We do it, all the time ~ to show approval, to celebrate some joyful thing, to wake someone up....</p><p></p><p>But when the time came to make the noise of celebration...for us, there was only one hand.</p><p></p><p>And that is the sound of it.</p><p></p><p>What we thought was real.</p><p></p><p>Cedar</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="Scent of Cedar *, post: 646217, member: 17461"] So I was vacuuming and thinking about this. And I kept seeing that empty cup. Burnished metal. Silver. And myself, crawling along behind my child, either child, with my cup, my beggar's cup, in the air. "Please don't do this." And at first, it broke my heart to know that. To know my cup would never have anything in it. I would never have the affirmation, would never have that sense of self and completion and rightness come of basking in the reflections of successful children, [I]of a job well done[/I]. I would never know the rich, peculiar taste or catch the scent swirling through the clouds of steam rising from my cup of life because no matter how convincingly I write or think about it, the stupid cup is empty. But then, I had written that paragraph about the intensity of the relationships each of us, at the end of the day, has with our children. And I kept thinking about that. And as I was vacuuming, I realized that in a way, I have a thing, an understanding or a richness or texture or something that though it does not fill my cup, is somehow nourishing enough, nonetheless. And that is what is called drinking from an empty cup. The cup, my cup, is undeniably empty. Shiny empty, the bottom sparkling with brush marks from all the times I have polished it to be ready for the time it would be filled. And yet, I am taking nourishment, am finding sustenance there, rich and real and truer than the filled cup may ever have been. Maybe. Maybe, this is true. And as long as I haven't posted this yet and can always go back and delete this part, I will tell you too what I know about the sound of one hand, clapping. The sound of one hand, clapping silent shrieking on the Wind Of nightmare dreams and nightmare grapplings of prayers unprayed and Prayers, unwrapping to gods of muddied spittle, and of tin.... To understand that sound of one hand, clapping, we first must acknowledge that in our minds and hearts, there were two hands. Whether both hands were ours, or whether we raised one to make a high five with someone else, we must have been very sure there were two hands. Or we would have thought about doing something other than clapping. Whistling instead, maybe. So to think of clapping is to describe expectation, or the channeling of dreams. It was a reality we were so sure of that to think about making the sound of clapping was no big deal. We do it, all the time ~ to show approval, to celebrate some joyful thing, to wake someone up.... But when the time came to make the noise of celebration...for us, there was only one hand. And that is the sound of it. What we thought was real. Cedar [/QUOTE]
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