I’m in the middle of reading May Sarton’s diaries published as Journal of a Solitude, and I’ve shamelessly appropriated the title. It’s the latest in my obsession with the private writings of creative women. Despite my nervousness about the existence of thoughts on paper, I am not at all concerned about breaching the internal worlds of these fascinating women who have left (or shared) their words for others to read. On my shelf alongside Sarton you will find Helen Garners notebooks, Ruth Park, the torturous thoughts of Virginia Woolf. Anna Morrow Lindbergh, aviatrix, mother, writer.
In the solitude of my bed each evening I settle back to read and intrude without compunction into the personal space of these inspiring women, none of whom ever wrote the words I devour with the intention of sharing them publicly. Clearly solitude isn’t always the comforting experience I so enjoy (I’m looking at you, Virginia Woolf) but I find reflections of my own love for aloneness that reassure me I’m not the only one who feels like this.
“I have spent a lifetime thinking about the difference between alone and lonely. Many introverts are probably just as aware of this one. I can go for months on my own very happily. Contented with my books and my writing and my walking. As a teenager sport was more than enough to give me plenty of time with others, I needed the rest of my life on my own in my room and in my head. When that delicate balance got out of whack, though, it could hit hard and loneliness would become my greatest foe.
This is how I had originally begun a draft for this line of the Desiderata. I opened my file of notes and read what followed. The words that I had dropped were all about my experience during the pandemic, in the workplace that no longer worked. In isolation but not alone and not at home. Fear and loneliness were constant companions for all of us; whispering at our elbows whenever we ventured to the supermarket, glaring at us over masked smiles, confronting us in the emptiness of the roads during peak hour…
Those words are far better suited for the privacy of a journal where they can take their far more appropriate place as ‘of a time but not timeless’. Luckily for me (and you, dear reader!) time has also reshaped my distraction with the concept of ‘being alone’ into one that is ridiculously fascinated by solitude. Let’s be honest, most diaries are journals of solitudes, aren’t they? Solitude is a far more internal experience than the physical reality fo being alone. Solitude can be sought in the presence of others and it can be enjoyed by yourself.
Hindsight is 2020. We learned a lot about the difference between solitude and aloneness then, didn’t we?
Since those years of which we are only just feeling able to speak about (the C**d ones), I’ve begun taking myself out on solo adventures. I call them ‘dates’ because these are all about finding something that I might enjoy and taking myself by the hand to make it happen. Sometimes it’s as simple as driving to the lake and sitting there with a coffee to write (bliss!). I’ve bought myself tickets to plays and begun a personal bucket list of visiting libraries around the state. Every now and then I wander the local art Gallery (well worth a visit if you’re in town, it’s exemplary). And, when time and life allows, I’ve climbed into my escape pod and taken myself on solo overnight trips to visit those I love, people AND places.
Life lets me do it now as family and work look very different to how they did before. What was once a stolen hour before the dawn or mid afternoon while a toddler slept or on a public holiday is now something I can manipulate far more easily. It’s ridiculous to me that my craving for solitude has resulted instead in an increase in my participation in the social world. Or, just maybe, it’s the same as it always was but my social capital is no longer swallowed up just by being in a busy workplace and instead completely in my own control where I can eke it out judiciously, spend it wisely, save it up when needed. Intriguing. That could be it!
It’s not as simple to do as it is to write. I tell you this because I want you to know it can be done and I love it so much I want it for all of you. I want you to drive down the highway on your own in your car singing your favourite songs at the top of your lungs, just once. I want you to walk the halls of your exhibition of choice or watch a movie you know you’ll love without having to discuss it with anyone in the moment. Just once. Sit in the welcoming aura of your local library and absorb the friendliness as you read an old-fashioned newspaper (link just in case you’ve never heard of this) while you sip a latte. Do it just once.
Solitude can feel a bit awkward and uncomfortable when first you start to experiment with it but, trust me, the effort is worth it. Persist! And if you realise it’s actually loneliness you’re feeling don’t ignore it. My prescription would be to do those same things only smile and make eye contact with the barista, with the gallery guide, with the librarian. Open your window while you sing and wait for the first smile of recognition from a pedestrian at the lights while you wait for a green. You’re not alone.
I’m guessing not everyone will rush off to the library first opportunity. I’m curious. If you could gift yourself a solo date, where would you take yourself???
*In one of those quirky moments of serendipity / coincidence / circumstance I realised I was listening to Melissa Etheridge on repeat singing ‘Occasionally’ as I wrote this piece. Even though she names the same experiences that I describe as solitude as ‘lonely’ we can agree to disagree. It’s still a masterpiece!
**If you are curious, there are countless books about the topic and experience of solitude. Memoirs about mid-life escapes and isolated careers and inner worlds and enforced aloneness and all of them very clear about the distinction between alone and solitude.