By Kerry Schafer
Solitude.
It's a beautiful word. Musical. Like wind in the tree tops or the lapping of water against the shore. It makes me think of full moon on snow, early morning mist on a lake, a sky blazing with stars. I can't imagine solitude in the middle of a city somewhere, but I know that's just me. I could be, and have been, alone in a city. Even happily so, at times, but it wasn't solitude - not with all the bustle and scurry and flow right outside the window.
As I write this, everybody else in the house still sleeps. Outside my writing window the trees are black against a sky just shaded with rose at the horizon. They've only just advanced from silhouette to three dimensional. Next step - color will emerge and they will shift from black to green and brown as the light grows.
If people were up and talking, chances are good I wouldn't notice. I'd either be annoyed at the interruption of my rare and precious moments of alone time, or sucked into interaction and focused on conversation and the give and take of morning rituals with the family.
One of the things I love about my job is the exchange of a day or two off during the week for the nights and weekends on call. Especially in the winter, when the kids are in school and the Viking is at work. A day at home in my empty house is the ultimate luxury for me. The rest of the time, I take what I can get.
I usually get up at 5. I wouldn't have to. I could easily get up at 6:30 and be at work on time. I began this habit years ago when the kids were young. Not because I'm a morning person - I'm not - but because it was the only time I could count on to be alone. If I can get an hour alone in the morning to do whatever - journal, write, or just hang out on Twitter - I am a much more pleasant human being for the rest of the day. Of course, over the course of years what has happened is that waking this early has become a habit, and is often no longer effective. The Viking is not only an early riser, but one of those annoying morning people. As in, when he gets up he engages in conversation and turns on lights and stuff. And the kids every now and then get it into their teenage brains that they should be up at 5;30 for one reason or another. The fact that I tend to grunt at them all and lock myself away behind a closed door if possible doesn't seem to register.
When I can't be alone I do the best I can. Long walks on the property with the dog for company. Headphones. When the house is full my visits to the bathroom tend to be long, drawn out events. Hey - it's a locked door, and people tend to have the decency to leave you alone in there. I'm smart enough to always have a book at hand, so it's a mini escape that's always available. Actually, it's not always available. Lots of teenage boys in this house. One bathroom. But hey, I take what I can get.
One of the ironies of my life is that the luxury of loving to be alone has everything to do with knowing there are people there when I want them. I think it would be a very different story if the Viking wasn't coming home at the end of the day or at least for the weekend. If there were no teenagers to talk to. No family who loves me for what I am out there somewhere. No long suffering friends to put up with my social weirdness and still willing to talk to me after months of not communicating. In order to be a pleasure, at least for me, the alone time needs to be voluntary and not enforced.
As I've been writing this the sky has warmed to gold. I can see the gravel of the driveway, the low bushes between the trees are faintly green. Soon the Viking will be awake and I'll fix his coffee. It's been a pleasure, but the companionship will be lovely too.
As I write this, everybody else in the house still sleeps. Outside my writing window the trees are black against a sky just shaded with rose at the horizon. They've only just advanced from silhouette to three dimensional. Next step - color will emerge and they will shift from black to green and brown as the light grows.
If people were up and talking, chances are good I wouldn't notice. I'd either be annoyed at the interruption of my rare and precious moments of alone time, or sucked into interaction and focused on conversation and the give and take of morning rituals with the family.
One of the things I love about my job is the exchange of a day or two off during the week for the nights and weekends on call. Especially in the winter, when the kids are in school and the Viking is at work. A day at home in my empty house is the ultimate luxury for me. The rest of the time, I take what I can get.
I usually get up at 5. I wouldn't have to. I could easily get up at 6:30 and be at work on time. I began this habit years ago when the kids were young. Not because I'm a morning person - I'm not - but because it was the only time I could count on to be alone. If I can get an hour alone in the morning to do whatever - journal, write, or just hang out on Twitter - I am a much more pleasant human being for the rest of the day. Of course, over the course of years what has happened is that waking this early has become a habit, and is often no longer effective. The Viking is not only an early riser, but one of those annoying morning people. As in, when he gets up he engages in conversation and turns on lights and stuff. And the kids every now and then get it into their teenage brains that they should be up at 5;30 for one reason or another. The fact that I tend to grunt at them all and lock myself away behind a closed door if possible doesn't seem to register.
When I can't be alone I do the best I can. Long walks on the property with the dog for company. Headphones. When the house is full my visits to the bathroom tend to be long, drawn out events. Hey - it's a locked door, and people tend to have the decency to leave you alone in there. I'm smart enough to always have a book at hand, so it's a mini escape that's always available. Actually, it's not always available. Lots of teenage boys in this house. One bathroom. But hey, I take what I can get.
One of the ironies of my life is that the luxury of loving to be alone has everything to do with knowing there are people there when I want them. I think it would be a very different story if the Viking wasn't coming home at the end of the day or at least for the weekend. If there were no teenagers to talk to. No family who loves me for what I am out there somewhere. No long suffering friends to put up with my social weirdness and still willing to talk to me after months of not communicating. In order to be a pleasure, at least for me, the alone time needs to be voluntary and not enforced.
As I've been writing this the sky has warmed to gold. I can see the gravel of the driveway, the low bushes between the trees are faintly green. Soon the Viking will be awake and I'll fix his coffee. It's been a pleasure, but the companionship will be lovely too.
