The Gift of Solitude

Standing by the window, nose pressed against the glass. Watching. Sitting on the porch steps hoping for a grandson to drop by. Wondering. Scrutinizing the email for a response from a job application. Waiting. Checking for a text message from a boyfriend. None. Wishing for someone to come; someone to write; someone to call. And no one does. That’s loneliness. 

Skiing down an undulating slope with no one around. Hiking alone under a canopy of green. Curled up reading a book. Just sitting, listening to music. Losing ourselves in contemplative prayer. That’s solitude. 

All of us—at least those of us who remain unencumbered by wordily things, those who maintain some sense of spirit—have experienced a oneness with life when we’ve felt the most insignificant. 

When we’ve sought solitary places we see, with inward eye, our soul bound to nature’s harmony. Solitude keeps us in touch with those things most holy. We become mindful of God. 

Wait! Hold it! Those sentences sound great. Poetic. Romantic. A word picture. But that’s not the way life really happens. 

A deadline looms. After that I've got to take the trash out before the garbage man arrives. Need to book a hotel reservation. A fax requesting medical records just came in. 

Now back to my writing. Excuse me. That was Vicki asking me to pick up some bread and milk at the grocery store. And, “Oh yes,” she says, “You better check your right front tire. It looks real low to me.” 

Phone ringing. Voices calling. Deadline menacing. Tires flattening. Always noise and stuff. Stuff that breaks. Stuff to do. 

Occasionally we overload ourselves with tasks to avoid loneliness. 

That’s life: Demanding duties; tasks calling, clamor disrupting... and sometimes loneliness. 

We can’t always be blessed by the silence of soft snow falling, but we can teach ourselves to pull back and cultivate serenity deep within.