Last week, my family drove off into the west without me. While they went to visit some relatives on my husband’s side of the family, I stayed back, left alone with our dog and a stack of to-do lists for myself.
I know myself to be an introvert, but I’m always a little bit shocked, on these rare occasions when I’m left alone, at how much of an introvert I am.
For four days, I happily went to work, came home, walked the dog, then attempted to do some laundry or sorting or cleaning before I eventually gave in to the temptation at hand: a novel I was reading, a limited series on Hulu I had been meaning to get to, or a podcast about a juicy Hollywood scandal.
I savored the strange luxury of slicing fat, juicy strawberries into a bowl for a huge, dinner-sized helping of cereal; I assembled a charcuterie board for one, using the remains of a package of pepperoni, some provolone cheese, and apple slices. For four days, the only time I even touched my stove was for heating the teakettle for my morning coffee.
The hours ticked by, deliciously slow and yet fast enough to cause whiplash. These few days alone existed in some strange, alternate universe that I hoped would end soon, while simultaneously wishing they would go on longer.
I thought about people who live alone, the ones who long for companionship and conversation.
Then I thought of a brother or a sister living in the midst of a large family, longing for the day of breaking free and claiming some small space for themselves in a world away from arguing parents and loud siblings.
The grass is always greener on the other side of the fence, says conventional wisdom. We always want what we don’t have.
On the last day of my aloneness, my friend invites me for a walk in a forest preserve. I paused a beat, tempted to decline in order to protect the last hours of my beloved introversion, but without thinking, I say yes. As soon as she picks me up in her car, I’m glad. I met this particular friend when our boys were in elementary school together, and while our kids grew up alongside each other, so did we. Now our sons are grown, but our friendship remains a precious jewel, polished and gleaming under the pressure of motherly exhaustion and shared experiences.
Our conversation meanders much like the path we are on. After so many days alone, the gentle rhythm of conversation, of talking, of asking questions and then listening, is as soothing as a long-forgotten lullaby.
After my days in solitude, my senses are heightened. The sky is bluer, the leaves are greener. Out in the fresh air, our conversation is cloaked in more privacy than if we were in a coffee shop or restaurant. We can say things we would be embarrassed to tell anyone else, and our words float up and dissipate somewhere into the clouds. We stop to admire fuzzy goslings, playful squirrels, and majestic blue herons. But then we return on our path, say, “What were we just talking about?” and laugh.
We walked until the morning sun rose high enough to give our faces a sheen of sweat and rosy cheeks. I’m grateful for this invitation to a conversation among the trees, for the feeling of my legs moving, my lungs filling. As much as I love being alone, this morning hike with a beloved friend brought me back to the world, preparing me for the return of my family and re-entry into a boisterous existence. No more cereal for dinner. No more reading for hours at a time. The alone-ness was good while it lasted. But communion with nature and other human beings — that is a very good thing, too.
