Solitude
As seekers of places in the world that contain us, there is nowhere that captures our imagination as much as that of Solitude. As commonplace as Costa (or Target for American readers), and as divisive as Goop, that state of being alone is one that we all may experience, but only some of us willingly seek out.
As Lockdown 2.0 is with us in much of Europe, we’re having to confront once again how Solitude can show up in our lives and how it stakes territory around us. This time though, from where I’m sitting alone at my kitchen table, it doesn’t feel like we’re all starting our frantic self-improvement projects again, but rather, as the color drains out of our newly returned worlds, we’re just trying to make stays against depression, loneliness, and loss.
When Solitude works, when it asserts itself as the Scandinavian design of our self-care worlds, it offers clarity, an opportunity to hear our inner voices, it gives us a chance to reconnect with ourselves. Silent meditations, forest bathing, wild swims, epic walks, even sitting reading in a favorite chair and lying a little longer in bed in the morning, whatever form Solitude can take, can capture that sense of being alone, but in a resoundingly positive way. Solitude holds the world back so that we may come in again. It’s a wall we can build around ourselves or the boundary that can set us apart for a while — even if you use it to connect with something bigger than yourself and to untether your mind to get to that universal ‘om’.
For some of us, Solitude is a place of comfort we deliberately seek out in our days. As with many introverts, for me, it’s the place I find to recharge. It was in a group lesson with a meditation teacher on how to get out of our minds, that I realized that wasn’t where I wanted to go. Getting into my mind, being able to play inside, that’s a place of comfort and retreat, a way to lose myself. In the first lockdown, my struggle was that I carried everywhere with me this potential for solace and comfort, but I couldn’t access it because I was never alone. With two children to homeschool, a business to run, and a husband no longer commuting, my life became crowded, my days full, and Solitude a place that I dreamt of.
I recognize that it’s a beast though, Solitude, if we allow it to grow, to take over, to become the only place we ever get to. Solitude can sit on us, it can hold us down, it can make us struggle for ways out that we can never find. When imposed and not chosen, Solitude does something very different to us. It calls in loneliness, it shines a light on our failings, it cultivates our anxiety, it can even bring on madness. Alone in our homes (even as the husband puts the kettle on beside us), separated from those we love by a pandemic and maybe also politics now (the post-election US is very much the context here), with our purpose confined to laptops and zoom calls, we can feel like we’re in a place no longer of our choosing. And with ever-shifting regulations and news bulletins, we’re told it’s one that we can’t easily leave.
Solitude as the storefront of our emotional lives starts to present differently, too. It can be a covetable indie café or an anonymous dollar store. Our Solitude over here can start to look much worse than your Solitude over there. Your neighbor, friends, or Insta-acquaintances can seem to be giving Solitude a Lockdown makeover. They’ve gone heavily into Hygge — their candles are burning, and sheepskins are carelessly draped on artisan benches beside outside firepits. Or they’ve become the creatives we envy and aspire to be, developing new but highly successful practices in screen-printing or photographic still lives. Or they are filling their days with awe and wonder, taunting us with complicated dance routines and planetariums built in the backyard.
We’re looking over Insta shoulders and neighbors’ walls wondering why Solitude looks so good for them, but so suffocating for us. How are they living in the better version? How are they shaping it rather than it them? But we know by now that styling a life, is not the same as living a life, or indeed telling the truth about a life (even though we forget that we know that all the time). Our coping strategies take all forms — and, indeed, have to, for we are all different, and so Solitude too is a shape-shifter.
However, you feel about Solitude — whether it’s a place you run towards or from — know this: Solitude has closing hours, too. It’s a temporary destination with a month-by-month (maybe even minute to minute) lease. There are ways out if that is what we are looking for (see Connection) and if it’s not, there are ways to nestle deeper into it (and extend its run). I know people who avoid Solitude with the passion of someone on a restrictive diet: they busy themselves, reach out to people widely and carelessly, fill days with things to do, spend time always with all the people, avoid its dark spaces.
I know others who crave it like new love, get itchy to spend time with it, fall into its comforts, and neglect the open arms of their human companions. Either approach works until it falls out of balance and then doesn’t. There is no judgment that Solitude should show up a certain way, but rather a recognition that we are in relationship to Solitude because we are in relationship to ourselves. After all, isn’t that the reality of Solitude, it’s the one place we can never avoid, because we are always there.
When our world shifts again, which we know now that it must, you can choose to stay in Solitude a bit longer. You may have found, like some the first time around, that they rather liked it. Or you may leave it behind, car tires screeching as you drive to new sunsets. Because by then hopefully, the destination of Solitude will be a choice and not an imposition. No one should be forced to go anywhere, especially here. Solitude can be life’s respite but also our greatest torture. It contains multitudes. There are very few places like it.
