An Empty Shelf

There is one shelf in my house with nothing on it.

It hangs on the wall of the front room, pale wood, a hand's width deep, at about the height of my shoulder. It has been bare for a year. Visitors look at it, then at me, then politely away.

I want to explain why I keep it that way.

How it started

When I moved in, I filled every flat surface. A vase here. A stack of books there. Small things I had collected, a stone from a beach, a jar of buttons, a candle that smelled of something I could not name. Each object was nice. Together they said nothing, in a very loud voice.

One evening I was dusting the shelf and found myself holding the dust cloth like a prayer. I had taken everything off. And I stood there, looking at the wood, and thought: this is the best thing on this wall.

What space does

Space is not nothing. I used to think it was a gap waiting for something to arrive. Now I think of it as a material, the way clay is, or paper.

An empty shelf does a few quiet things:

• It gives the eye somewhere to rest

• It lets the light fall, and shows how it falls

• It makes the objects nearby look more themselves

• It makes room for a change you have not yet had

I do not mean it is a rule. I know people for whom a crowded room is the same as a warm one, and their houses are lovely. It is only that I needed to learn the opposite.

The pull to fill

This was not easy. Every few weeks I would find an object that "would look good there." A small bowl, a postcard, a feather. I would carry it over, hold it against the wood, and put it back.

The urge is old, and I do not think it is only about decoration. It is about discomfort. A gap makes us nervous. We want it explained, accounted for, justified. Leaving it open felt like being unfinished in public.

But I have come to like unfinished. It has a way of letting the day in.

What arrived

In late spring, a small thing happened. A moth landed on the shelf and stayed for an afternoon. It sat in the sun, wings flat, and I watched it from the chair for an hour without reading.

I would not have seen it if there had been a vase.

Since then I have let a few things visit. A bowl of plums, once, for three days. A leaf that had fallen on the doormat and looked too good to throw away. They came and they went. The shelf did not need them to stay.

The point

I am not asking anyone to clear a room. I am saying that somewhere in your house there may be a corner you could leave alone.

Try it for a week. See what the light does there.