Our Sojourn in Solitude
These are hazy, surreal days for me, thanks to the virus outbreak. Mostly I stay in my quiet house, or wander into the backyard to watch the birds doing what birds do this time of year: nesting and creating new life. The tiny brown Carolina wrens and startling red cardinals are everywhere. Flurry of wings in the bird baths, new fledglings zooming around on their first escape from the nest with mom peeping loudly for guidance. Then back in my quiet house, back in front of my computer with plenty of time now to work on my book chapter revisions. I remember a time—was it just a month or so ago?—when I juggled my “busy” schedule and wished for more quiet time. Of course, the busyness was of my own making: running hither and tither to the gym, stores, nail salon, restaurants for lunches and dinners. (Really important stuff, but I am retired now!) I sighed and complained that there are never enough hours in the day. Now there are more than enough and, yes, I am making progress on my rewriting. But it feels like it’s happening under duress. Solitude overload. Then I remembered something—oh how quickly we forget other times and what we wished for.
In 2012, I ran into a brick wall. Mentally. The tail end of the economic downturn had me exhausted and frazzled from trying to keep our small family company afloat. While contemplating a quiet (as in pack my bags and slink off, maybe forever) disappearance, I came across a piece about Monhegan Island in the Travel section of the paper. As I read about the fierce beauty of the cliffs and the muted stillness of Cathedral Woods, a solution presented itself: a solitary retreat.
After more research I thought, yep, Monhegan is the perfect place, isolated yet safe. Igneous rock that rose up from the Atlantic Ocean floor millions of years ago, Monhegan is twelve nautical miles off the coast of Maine. A mere square mile in diameter, the island is besieged by hundreds of eco-tourists a day during June, July, and August. The rest of the year, however, the shops, restaurants, hotels and bed and breakfasts are shut down. The census showed “about seventy” residents. Perfect. Checking online, I found a small furnished apartment willing to open in early May. I booked it and made my flight reservations.
For two weeks, my days were spent alone. I wrote, went for long walks, wrote some more and walked some more. I meditated and read, met a few of those seventy or so residents who were mostly single and lived alone. Happily. The main General Store offered all the necessary fresh produce and staples, although most of the time it was unmanned. I got what I needed, wrote it down on a legal pad by the register. Hauled my goodies up the rocky path to the apartment. Evenings I fixed a salad and maybe cooked up a chicken breast, drank a glass of wine and sat in the front yard to watch a brood of chickens cross from the old farmhouse across the street to roost under the big bush in my front yard. In the mornings, I awoke to the flurry of birds at the feeders on the back porch. I cut oranges in half and stuck them on bush branches to attract big fat Orioles.
Can I tell you this was one of the most profound times in my life? I rarely knew what time or day it was. I didn’t care because it didn’t matter. A diurnal clock kicked in: I got up with the light and went to bed with the dark. I slept through the night. A deep peace enveloped my inner self. Every ache and nervous twitch left; my body functioned perfectly, my mind was sharp and creative. Of course I wondered if a life of solitude was my calling. But no, I love my family and friends and we all know things never remain the same. So I came home healed and happy to be back. I had gone to ground zero of myself and come back better than before. Perhaps ever.
The difference, of course, lies in choice. I chose to spend the time sequestered from all the privileges my “normal” life offered. This current solitude, however, is mandated. We, our loved ones, and friends may get very ill and die. The economic hardships are depressing and frightening. But this awful time will also change. We can’t begin to know what the new “normal” will be. It will take time to recoup: mentally, physically and economically. We will all pay a price. But in the meantime, we can take this time to find parts of ourselves we have lost, or perhaps add parts we never had before. We can be still to listen to whispers we may not have heard otherwise. We can figure out what means most to us, what not to take for granted.
An excerpt from my journal on Monhegan Island:
Today I hiked the stillness of Cathedral Woods. The crowns of spruce and balsam firs blocked out much of the sun to offer up cool respite. I made my way respectfully on the difficult to see path, losing direction several times to end up in impassable underbrush and having to double back. Roots and rocks I mind chant, as these designate the maintained trails. When my steps become hushed by layers of detritus accumulated over many years, I’m off trail. An orb of sunlight spotted me as I looked up at a break in the thick canopy. An inverted oasis, life-giving rays have brought forth bayberry and elderberry bushes conjoined to form a thick hedge. It appeared to be undulating as migratory birds went about their business of nesting and resting. The warm scent of the blooming, white bayberry blossoms offered a jolt of nostalgia for Yuletide.
The cool darkness returned as the trail continued upward, towards a deep rumble crashing and receding. I reached the headlands, plopped down on a jagged granite ledge overlooking the churning Atlantic Ocean, closed my eyes and allowed my mind to empty. Gradually, the melodies of my surroundings filled the senses: crescendo of waves; wind soughing through the tree tops; screeching of soaring gulls. Then the smells arrived: tang of spruce and fir; heated granite of igneous rock; briny ocean spray; bird guano splattered on the cliff walls.
Breathe in, breathe out.
