Everything/Nothing

There isn’t a word for the unique brew of abundant scarcity. I feel it always, nearly every day – this wave of everything and nothing at the same time. This perceived abundance of time and moments with the very knowledge that it is passing, right now, this very moment. That the sun outside is sinking and tomorrow it will sink again but a fragment of a moment later, an inch to the left of the horizon and that next week, next month, next year it will set again in the same way – a different way – and we will be changed.

There will always be more, until there isn’t.

We will always have enough, until we don’t.

I look at Bee sometimes and I mean, really look at her, and I just get a little out of breath. It happens when I’m cutting strawberries or tying her shoe and I realize that this very thing will not happen again. I will cut millions of strawberries in my life (God-willing), but not right here, with this knife with the horseshoe ring on my left finger, the one with the knuckle that’s cracking slightly from cold weather and dry skin and airport soap. I won’t cut strawberries while she’s swiveling around on her bumblebee scooter and telling me a story about the unicorn statue. I’ll cut them tomorrow, and the moment will be different and the same; bigger and smaller.

Abundantly scarce.

They’re a perfect blend, don’t you think? If we set our minds on an abundant life – a clock of everything – we’d never be in want. We’d never be in need of more minutes or moments or memories. We’d slowly wait and sit and wish without thought until we realized our fingers were pruney and the hourglass was tipping. There would be so much sand on the bottom and we’d cry. We’d cry because it happened too fast for us to realize. We’d cry because we thought it would always be there.

But if we set our minds on a scarce life – a clock of nothing – we’d always be in want. We’d want more minutes or moments or memories, and we’d quickly take and take and take with so much fear that we’d grab – fast and furious – until our hands were clenched so tightly that the sand couldn’t slip through the cracks. It would build up until the glass burst, and we’d cry. We’d cry because there was so much and we never noticed. We’d cry because it was always there.

It cannot be abundant.

It cannot be scarce.

Abundantly scarce, it seems, is the hardest, messiest, most beautifully designed way.