Solitude is not loneliness

I have never lived alone. I grew up in a family with four children. My sister and I shared a bed until I was 12. It was easier to fall asleep knowing my sister was next to me, knowing my brothers were sleeping in the next room. When it was hot, and we didn't have central air conditioning, my parents made us a palate on the floor of the living room next to the window unit. The constant blowing cold air and white noise eased us into sleep, puppy-piled in a nylon green double sleeping bag with a green plaid interior. Even after I got my own room at 12 years old, I still battled insomnia some nights, so my Dad would pull a chair into the hallway outside my room and read the newspaper while I fell asleep. It's always been a comfort to know that someone is close by, that I'm not ever truly left alone.

I had one, two, three, and four roommates throughout college living situations. Then after college I always lived with multiple other people. I believed that my extremely extroverted nature meant that I needed to be with people constantly. I never sought quiet - without it being imposed by my surroundings, say through a church service or retreat. And in the random moments when I was by myself in the apartment, I preferred to fill the quiet with music or NPR, because *I thought* that was part of my identity: to love music, to seek knowledge, to fill my cup with the sounds of other people, other creations, other stories.

Things shifted when I married an introvert: a man who joined a monastery for a couple months in his 20s, and who still dedicates his life's work to contemplation and meditation. I went from living with family, roommates, and dear friends, forever peopled throughout my day, to living with one person I loved deeply who craved and thrived in quiet. 

Our marriage holds so many opposites: extrovert and introvert, theater performer and theologian, uproarious and reserved, jazz hands and Anjali Mudra (Namaste) - you're getting the picture. The work of our 13 years of marriage has been (and surely will continue to be for the rest of our lives) to call each other to the table - that metaphoric table where we meet in a common space. This space demands nourishment, attention, and listening, and as our family grew, so did the spaces and demands at that table.

Some people experience social anxiety, but not me. I used to experience solitude anxiety. I used to find my husband's desire for downtime perplexing. But given the demands of motherhood, and especially during a time of Covid quarantine with everyone home all the time, I finally understand. All too often I set aside my own needs and wants to take care of other people. I'm very good at helping, assisting, and even (foolishly so) controlling the outcomes of little lives around me. Often before I ask myself what I want, I'm extending little antennae invisibly above my head, searching for the wants and needs of others. To be a worthwhile human being in this world, (or so I errantly continue to subconsciously believe), is to serve the needs of others to the point of exhaustion, frustration, and resentment. In this state, I come to the family table with a chip on my shoulder, running anxious circles in my mind that I'm not getting enough done, not tuned in enough to everyone's needs, and endlessly failing at motherhood, marriage, and life.

You might be shocked to hear that I inevitably hit a brick wall. When this happened a couple weeks ago, I found that even after a weekend of rest, I still felt exhausted. It wasn't a physical exhaustion, it was a soul exhaustion. I had not tended to my innermost self. Thankfully, I'm married to a man who cultivates his own practice of contemplation and meditation. AND when he sees me hit that wall, he supports me in finding my way back.

This weekend I took myself on retreat: I found an Airbnb studio apartment, nestled in the trees, on the second floor of an old red brick St. Louis home. I am less than a 10 minute drive from my house, but I might as well be in a Deciduous Forest. The room I slept in last night has windows on three sides, and tree branches encapsulate my view. I brought fresh eucalyptus, built a small altar, read, sketched with charcoal pencils, and breathed in the quiet.

What I feared for so long - thinking it to be a place of loneliness - was actually a place of knowing my deeper self and aligning it with my values, intentions, hopes and dreams. It's only by sitting in the quiet solitude that I'm able to fill my cup, because in doing so, I can return to the family table. The solitude I seek is not a space of loneliness. The solitude I desire is an alignment within myself: a listening for my own voice and intuition, a place of rest where I am not caring for the needs of anyone else. A place where I can focus on my relationship with Oneness, the Ground of being, the Divine Creator, and God Herself. 

I have never lived alone, but I can now say that carving out space in my own little studio in the trees this weekend, I have found the best company of all: myself. Whole, holy, and imperfect.