But hollow in relation to what, exactly? That's the question posed in Kalach Pitchei Chokhmah, an important Kabbalistic text.
One might argue, shouldn't we call it hollow because it's still becoming? Still striving for completion? You know, like how we often feel – a work in progress.
But here’s the thing: at this early stage, the container, so to speak, was filled with the Reshimu, the "Residue" or "Remnant" of the divine light. If it was full, even with this residue, why call it hollow?
The answer lies in perspective. It’s all relative to the Eyn Sof, the Infinite, the Boundless. Blessed be He.
The Eyn Sof is perfect in every conceivable way. The very idea of further perfection is simply inapplicable. It just is. In relation to that ultimate perfection, the container, even filled with the Reshimu, is considered hollow. It lacks the fullness of the Eyn Sof.
Think of it like this: a glass filled with water is full in one sense. But compared to the ocean, it's practically empty. It’s also called hollow in comparison to what it once was, when it was filled with the Unlimited Light, before that light withdrew to make space for creation. That initial fullness, that utter and complete presence of the divine – that's the ultimate standard. Compared to that, everything else is… lesser.
So, the "hollow" isn't about imperfection in the traditional sense. It's about acknowledging the vast, incomprehensible difference between the finite and the Infinite. It's about recognizing the limitations inherent in creation itself. Even at its most "full," it’s still defined by what it isn't – namely, the Eyn Sof.
It's a humbling thought, isn't it? To realize that even the most profound spiritual experiences, the most enlightened states, are still just glimpses, reflections of something far greater than we can ever fully grasp. And maybe, just maybe, that awareness of our own "hollowness," our own limitations, is the first step towards filling ourselves with something truly meaningful.