My family has gone away. I am home all alone. I’m supposed to be missing them but, as is usually the case, I’m not feeling what I’m supposed to- I’m loving it!
I love being alone. My day is completely mine. I type, and no one interrupts me. I can talk to myself. I can sing for no reason. I can put things down and they will still be there when I come back. I can walk naked. I can let the dogs on the sofa. I can play my trumpet during commercials. I can think freely. I can have silence.
I’ve never understood people who hate being alone, but then too I’ve never understood people who like to move around in big crowds. Constantly talking and reacting to others wears me out. I need to be alone; if too much time passes without it I can feel the tension building as the need becomes desperate.
I grew up under difficult circumstances and when I think of my childhood, my happiest moments are always times when I was alone. Part of my childhood we lived in an old rundown farmhouse. Behind the barns was a vast pasture that had a small stream running through it. I have a lovely memory of winter and going back there and shovelling off one section of the stream. I put on my ice skates and skate round and round dreaming I was Dorothy Hamill. Spinning and twirling. Alone and completely happy. I had friends and I enjoyed them, but being alone is where I found myself. As a teenager I lived near Lake Michigan and I would spend hours alone by the lake, watching the ships and the waves; hiding in the rocks away from people. They were lovely times.
They’ll be coming back tomorrow, my family. I’ll be happy to see them. Their noise also has its good side. Having a sensible, loving family is something I’m always grateful for, but my alone time is important too. It’s the weave of the complex cloth that makes up a life; my life.