On the secret relishing of aloneness
Words by Madeleine Dore
“Sometimes it takes darkness and the sweet confinement of your aloneness to learn anything or anyone that does not bring you alive is too small for you.”
– David Whyte
About a month ago when Melbourne entered stage four lockdown, a friend and I were attempting to buoy ourselves and talk about what we secretly relished when we had been here before, in the first lockdown, not so long ago.
My answer was a free schedule.
As someone who lives alone, I’m often asked if this time has been lonely. I haven’t found it particularly so – the aloneness is one of the perks of a free schedule, of a narrowing of my days. Being alone doesn’t make me lonely; nor does it make me bored – after all, those two things can often be experienced in company.
It’s a privilege, of course, both in temperament and in circumstance to be okay alone. Imposed aloneness isn’t always a thing to relish, just as this imposed ‘downtime’ isn’t really downtime for everyone.
But enjoying time alone is rarely a thing that people flaunt, or even admit. Maybe it’s a small, empowering act to say unabashedly that I’ve enjoyed this unbridled time alone. Aloneness is where I meet myself.
A free schedule has also meant no plans. Even as someone who needs a lot of solitude to restore, I have a tendency to overcrowd my calendar. I find it a lot easier to push aside the plans I have with myself for what someone else needs or wants to do – sometimes because I want to avoid a difficult task, sometimes because I don’t quite know how to decline.
Our secret relishing might be a symptom of how frequently aloneness is denied. Conventions and expectations make it difficult to simply say no – wanting to be alone isn’t a “good enough” excuse.
Instead we’re forced to blame busyness or other plans, but as this Tweet by Dymond Whipper-Young captures, “Can we normalise not being busy to be left alone?”
In an episode of Sugar Calling, poet Billy Collins tells Cheryl Strayed about an old high school friend who had become a nun and ended up in a little convent in Rome. When he was in Italy, he called to tell her he was visiting and whether she’d like to go to lunch.
The old school friend’s reply was simple, “Fortunately, I can’t.”
Maybe that’s what us secret-relishers are looking for – access to an honest, direct way to decline without all the fanfare.
In lockdown, that’s what we’ve been given. As Cheryl Strayed said in reply, “That’s a really kind of wonderful way to think about now, isn’t it? Because we who can’t go out, to turn that into a blessing rather than a curse is something, I think.”
Perhaps there’s distinct types of people – those that find the aloneness a blessing, those that find it a curse. Those that see it as imposed, those that see it as something to be protected. Those that are impatient to be in the world, those that are hoping to maintain the introspection.
Perhaps each of us can be both of these people.
A couple of weeks ago, a different friend and I were reflecting on what we miss the most since before lockdown.
Her answer was the scent of plans.
I knew exactly what she meant. Even in my contented aloneness, in my relishing of an empty calendar, I missed the scent of plans, too.
The scent implies a possibility, a spontaneity that is now lacking irrespective of whether you’re living alone, living with an entire household, in stage four lockdown, or with some version of eased restrictions. Our days are still narrowed, there are still limitations, there is necessary precaution. Some of us may have been robbed of our usual chances to be alone.
I miss moving around in the world, both alone and in company. Going to cinemas, cafes, bars, the library, both alone and in company. Following whims. Letting the day or the night unfold. Encountering something unexpected. Another drink, another hour, another location, another conversation with the person you’re catching up with.
Maybe that’s the allure of a free schedule – the possibility for spontaneity, the possibility for connection, for showing up in the world with zest, not with obligation.
In a podcast interview with Elizabeth Day, the writer and chef Nigel Slater admitted to being a terrible friend by standard measures.
But if a friend asks him to do something he actually doesn’t want to do – say go to a dinner, or wedding or party, he will not do it. Fortunately.
“I’m in my mid-60s, I do not want to waste one second of my time doing something I don’t want to do.”
Nigel’s words might appear selfish, but they contain a zest many of us might hesitate to adopt when declining. We have such a short amount of time here, why can’t we relish our time with ourselves?
I’m reminded of the final lines from one of my favourite poems by Naomi Shihab Nye come to mind: “Walk around feeling like a leaf. Know you could tumble any second. Then decide what to do with your time.”
Not only does saying no help protect your time – that lusted for free schedule – but it also creates space to show up in a way for others that is meaningful. As Nigel put it, if somebody needs to talk, he is there, listening.
Work to your strengths. And let them shift and change. Each of us, most likely, oscillate between wanting unbridled free time in a calendar and a crowded schedule; wanting to be alone, and wanting to be there for someone, or have someone be there for us. Perhaps it’s less about settling on a preference resolutely, and instead listening to what we need as moments shift.
This is what I hope to remember when our lives pick up again, before my calendar begins to bloat: one is free to follow the scent of plans with full abandon, or simply say fortunately, I can’t and relish the time alone.
It’s so easy to forget that we could tumble any second. This time has brought that notion even closer to us, I think. There’s grief with that, yes, but some of us have been able to shed ourselves of our expectations, our shoulds, our plans, our obligations, and just feel even for a moment what it’s like to be a leaf.
We need free moments in order to be alone – at least in our minds – and decide what to do with our time. It really is the sweet confinement of our own company that helps us see clearly what brings us alive…fortunately.