Solitude & Grace

I got a text from a friend, saying she missed me. But when I called, she wasn’t alone. You don’t have to be alone to feel lonely, I thought as she excused herself and got off the phone, returning to her company.

I walked home in the crisp New York night. Walkups with fire escapes reminded me of days when I was smaller, looking up at these buildings and wondering if I would ever live amongst them.

I have this belief in music and its almost prophetic ability. Call it superstition, but a shuffled playlist is not just a shuffled playlist to me. Every song is a sign. Every word has a meaning. An old favorite that takes me back to a certain time, a certain place or a certain person was meant to take me there. I could feel someone’s company beside me as one song played. And then it ended.

I turned the corner where a diner sits, the fogged window framing a woman in a booth. The liquid in her glass was a light amber against ice from her mostly finished coke. Her plate was empty, except for a pile of onions pushed to the side. I imagined her peeling them off her burger.

There was no grace or poise reserved for this solitary meal and I felt a little cross with myself. There was nothing particularly sad about the scene and yet it struck me as melancholy. Maybe it was a projection of my own attitude toward loneliness. Perhaps she was happier than the couple four tables down—the young woman leaning across the counter toward a man slumped in the booth opposite her.

How do you bring together solitude and grace?

I can romanticize it—I can imagine myself sitting at home alone with a glass of wine, reading and curled up on a couch. Yet, when I venture to the liquor store alone to buy a bottle of wine, I don’t feel graced or poised.

I could write a million of these women into stories and into novels. I write strong women. I write confident women. I write women who don’t apologize for taking up space, women who don’t feel lonely, women who don’t feel shame. I write what I wish I always felt.

I am learning for myself that solitude can be a beautiful thing, if I can exchange loneliness for something deeper—for an exploration of self.

The irony of my thoughts lead me to want time alone—time to write it all down without the distraction of interjecting conversations. What started as a reflection of loneliness and a desire to hear the warm voice of a friend, turns into a yearning for solitude.

This will always be my blessing and curse, the writer who gets energy from others will always battle competing desires. The solitude I fear is the same solitude I need to gather all my thoughts.

How do you bring together solitude and grace?
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Maybe it is found on quiet days and nights writing. Maybe it is something I will continue to teach myself.