(An interview with the MOST FAMOUS innkeeper in history! NOT TO BE taken seriously!!)
Joe comes in and asks for a room, and I tell him we’re all out of rooms and have been for months. Foot races. Theater groupies. And such. And he says, come on, please. I’ve got a pregnant lady with me. And I say, you hear that down the hall? I’m full up with pregnant ladies. And he says, this baby is important. And I say, hey, buddy, I don’t care if he’s the Son of God, I don’t have any rooms.
So there’s some irony there.
I guess so. And then he says, look, we’ll take anything. And so I say, as a joke, all right, you can go and sleep with animals if you like. And he says fine and slaps some money on the counter.
We are desperate to fill in every silence, every piece of stillness, with something–something we deem more desirable, more worthy than that stillness. Something we think is more important and urgent than that damning quiet underneath everything–that damning quiet that always exists. That quiet that starts to drives us crazy when we first notice it, in those brief moments when we accidentally drop our guard, and all the clamor we worked so hard to create dies down…
Stillness makes us nervous. Quiet is disturbing. The empty space is seen as the enemy…Inaction is like a death to us. If we stop, we think we will die…
I wonder if the more clamor we bring into our lives, the more this might be a sign that we are trying to run away from that empty space, and what it might reveal to us.
Because empty spaces are revealing. They reveal how you feel and what you think at any given moment. They bring you to observe the life around you.