The power of absence
Is absence more powerful than presence?
I’ve been thinking about this as I prep the garden, as I study the 15-foot lengths of soil mounded between the boards that define the raised beds. The soil is dark, beautiful, wormy. And bare. The seeds planted last week have yet to poke through.
And I think: There is power in that absence. I think: When something is missing, we don’t just notice the lack, we start to imagine what could be there, what might be there, what will be there. I begin to make the case—as I work the soil—that absence is definitely the more powerful of the two, that absence “wins” because it is about what is unfinished, open, and calling to us. It is all about vision, creativity, inventiveness. It compels action and growth.
Absence is the engine.
But then I envision the garden in full, the garden in July and August: the enormous heads of cauliflower, the brawny stalks of broccoli, the beans and snap peas hanging from the vines, the tomatoes plucked and eaten in the moment. I think about the orchard in September, all those blossoms that have turned to fruit, all that fruit that has ripened, the limbs now propped up to keep from breaking from the weight of those apples and pears. How lush and beautiful and wildly, deliciously productive it is. The presence of it all.
Presence is about fulfillment and completion. It is what is. It is deeply satisfying.
But.
Presence can also be fixed — it can stop the seeking and, if we’re not careful, lead to an overabundance of self-satisfaction and complacency, and even a kind of emotional dullness. (This is coming from a quadruple Aries, so a grain of salt is encouraged.)
It’s worth noting (so, please note) that many Eastern traditions emphasize the importance of emptiness — absence — as a source of strength and possibility (think: the "emptiness" inside a bowl is what makes it useful). In contrast, Western cultures often prize possession and presence. More points for absence, for those of you tallying.
But.
I finish in the garden and walk back to the house that used to overflow with a family of five. And I think about the absence of loved ones. Absence is also about emptiness and silence and sorrow, about wounds where unblemished skin used to be.
Later, when I’m finished being maudlin, I ask one of my sons what he thinks about this Absence v Presence thing.
“Well,” he says, “Have you ever heard anyone say ‘presence makes the heart grow fonder.’?”
Point. Game. Set. Match.