Solitude has always been a prize for me to accumulate and treasure. It’s like a mellow breeze or warm water on my toes…almost nothingness but creating a sensation of pleasure. The thought of it brings joy.
I’m learning that although I like to be alone, I’m used to snatching moments here and there. I’m unaccustomed to aloneness being open-ended. Like all things precious, my moments of quiet are valued because they are rare.
There are times this week when I wish my husband were here.
Watching an exciting basketball game is different by myself. Double overtime. Amazing suspense. Palpable excitement. But no one to share it.
In my yard a rhododendron is placed too close to the side of the house. It’s so sad that a quick death is it’s only option. I can’t move it alone so I need to figure out the logistics. Who shall I hire?
I’m a bit discontented this morning. It would be fun to walk to the coffee shop, sit in the sun and have breakfast. But that sort of thing isn’t as much fun alone. Without him it seems empty. I’m uncertain. Struggling for new direction.
Do I want to be alone? Do I want to call a friend? Will planting seeds ground me?
I’m not sure. It feels a bit hollow.
I’m reminding myself that I love this freedom. That I can be my own resource. And that my fretfulness about being alone is a feeling that will pass.
But I’m grateful that my time alone will end. I’m thinking of my friends who have lost their life-long mates. Solitude may have lost its luster for them, too.
A Letter to my Children 