Irises Saint Remy, Van Gogh

I’ve been alone quite a bit, lately. Alone, and in my head, around my thoughts, with no interaction, or new perspective, or another point of view.

It actually hasn’t been terrible – particularly for a person who is, by nature, extremely sociable. I’ve been able to meditate a bit easier about where things are, and about the direction in which I want to be headed. I actually like being by myself, much of the time.

Of course, a friendly face and a shared cup of tea WOULD be nice.

Many of my friends are far, far away, and so this unhappy circumstance leaves little room for conversation that goes beyond the small talk, in my daily meetings with people – you know, the librarian, the grocery store people, the kid behind the cash register at the little store down the street.

The small talk. The parler de la pluie et du beau temps. Ah, I am weary of the small talk. The very tiny talk. The talk that makes me want to run off and join a class in Plato’s Ethics and Epistemology, or Metaphysics, or something equally as reflective and random.

And as I sit here by myself – (well, with my children, so not precisely by myself) – and think and wonder and stare out at the rain, I think about how women (and men) used to be alone often, even one hundred years ago, living on the plains, or in the countryside, or the mountains. How isolated they must have felt, with no close neighbors, and no transport available to get them places. How women, attached to family and tending the house, must have looked to the sun, the sky, with a longing so great, it might have torn them in two. How their hearts must have burst with a craving so raw, that they might have been physically affected – might have sunken to their knees, might have laid their foreheads down on the cold earth and wept for something so foreign and unreal to them, that they could not begin to express or understand it.

Solitude, Jean-Jacques Henner

But my isolation is different. Not isolation at all, actually. And not so intense, or harshly rendered. Although, at times I feel as if I could sink to the earth in rich desperation – a desperation that is impenetrable, and real.

But, what would the neighbors think?

Yes. I do have neighbors. And I wonder – does this make it worse, having feelings of loneliness when there are people around everywhere? Perhaps the very fact that there are people around makes the loneliness greater.

Would I be better off surrounded exclusively by the natural world? I’m sure that it would be conducive to deeper thought, maybe more of a wild energy reflected and winding about, a philosophy stemming from nature at its core. Which always puts that extra wind in my spiritual sail. Inspiration coming from being alone with wind, trees, sky. And so, not being alone at all, really.

Why, then, am I lonesome, now? What am I actually missing? Why can I not be satisfied with this, this quiet existence of home, children, soft chaos, and unspoken rituals? Why must I always look away, to something else?

Because, well, for one thing, I am missing the deep connective relationships; the ones where I can make a phone call weeping about a missed opportunity, or laugh about silly nothings over a last-minute lunch, or walk and talk about existentialism and death while watching the sunset. I want to be present and full of capability for that person, or persons, who might help me in return, might guide and shoulder me when I’m lost and weak, who might allow me the various imperfections that are certainly present in me, and love me wholeheartedly, just the same.

An unconditional kind of love. Is it too much?

I don’t think so. But I’m not sure. Maybe it’s too much, right now. Maybe this particular phase of life is inherently lonely and creates much self-reflection and gnashing of teeth. Maybe within the noise and clatter, the heart becomes small and quiet, a tiny pumping in a soft rhythm that longs for an inexpressible contact and connection. Maybe this is what I am now, a small pumping heart searching for that essential connection, hot to the touch. Maybe I’m a speck of a dandelion floating in space that will settle for no less than an exceptional experience. Maybe I’m ready to open like a flower in dew, petals falling away in the rain to spread down in the grass like wildfire, ready to engulf myself in this true life; this vivid life; this life that is, if I am correct in my imaginings, without boundaries, and far from mediocre.

Farm Garden with Sunflowers, Gustav Klimt