On Being Alone
The frog's buldging, liquid eyes stare at me from the surface of the shawdowy pond. Sitting on the roots of a willow tree, enveloped by its weeping branches, I stare back, glad for the creature's company. Since moving to St. Louis, I visit Forest Park at least four times a week, sometimes walking around the zoo, sometimes following the path along the ponds.
Always alone, I walk on the enormous hill in front of the art museum or sit by the expansive fountain at its base and swing my feet over the water. I lay in the grass under a tree and stare at the cloud formations in the sky or the birds soaring silently overhead. I talk to God, my constant, invisible company, so evident in the beauty and life around me.
In the evenings, I climb the fountain across from the boat house and stand on the edge of the pool watching the kids swim near a sign that says, "No swimming in the Fountain." When the sun goes down, I stand transfixed, staring into the water display that shoots beams of light and water into the sky in an ever changing pattern of colors. Other times, I like to stand quietly on a bridge watching the tiny fish make patterns of circles on the surface of the slow moving stream as they nibble gnats that hover above the water.
My favorite spot, however, is a thick, graceful willow tree not far from the boat house and bordering the main pond. I have always adored weeping willows and this one does not disappoint. I often visit the tree in the evenings when the sun is setting and creep quietly through the branches to sit under the swaying canopy. Just barely, I can see the full pond through the leaves. I watch as the light changes from blue to pink, purple to black and the shadow on the water of the weeping branches deepens.
I am always alone. This evening, though, I feel alone.
Being alone is usually not scary for me. I often go out to dinner alone or see a movie in the movie theatre, visit art shows and fairs, the zoo and parks...alone, and it rarely phases me. Hilary, my dear Tucson friend is often horrified to find that I do such things alone. "No! I can't bear to think of you going to see a movie by yourself! Don't go!" When pressed, she tells me why, "I could never do something like that. I would be too nervous."
But I am not nervous! Nervous in my own company? On the contrary, it gives me time to think, to recenter myself, to daydream and staves off lonliness. If I have to be alone, is it better to be stuck in my room with the walls as company or to surround myself with beauty, animals and happy people to watch? The answer seems obvious.
But this evening, as I realize how grateful I am that the frog remains staring at me, I am feeling the weight of being too much alone. I think of the moments compounding into years and years of being alone. As a child, I have memories of playing my cello alone under pine trees, wading in streams alone, spending hours in the car with family alone with my thoughts. In college, I walked the campus graveyards alone (sounds creepy, but I rather like graveyards), did my homework alone in the Chinese garden of the Missouri Botanical garden. Went home alone after weddings of friends and most recently packed up my house in Tucson all alone and moved, alone, to St. Louis.
As much as I love the company of lots of people as well as the moments I spend by myself, I think of a different kind of company. There are a few people in one's life whose company is often better than being alone and better than being surrounded by scores of people.
I think of my best friend, Chrissy, whose heart and mind connected with mine in such a way that we would spend hours laughing until our bladders, literally, gave out...Who would just as easily weep with me in her driveway as we discussed the pain of having broken fathers...who would play hymns on the piano and we would raise our voices together to praise our Lord...who, even after four years of not seeing one another face to face, felt so familiar that it was as if we had been growing together all along.
I think of my best friend, Sarah, whose heart and mind connected with mine in such a way that we would feel perfectly comfortable sitting in silence together as having a deep, spiritual conversation...who would visit Farmer's markets with me and enjoy summers filled with fruit smoothies and evenings swinging on swingsets, or take Sunday afternoon naps together and insist that, "God must sprinkle sleepy dust on Sundays"...who later married my cousin and is now family as well as friend and still manages to love and encourage me miles away in South Korea.
I think of my best friend, Hilary, whose heart and mind connected with mine in such a way that we would pray for our future husbands together, walk through spiritual darkness and uncertainty together...who would train a wild baby quarter horse with me or watch a foal being born and marvel at God's creation...who would sit on my couch and color in coloring books for hours, making dry and hilarious comments until we were rolling...whose paintings covered the walls of my house and who shared my love of literature...and when we were angry or hurt, we would discuss or cry it through until we were bosom buddies yet again.
There are situations that are worse than being alone- such as being in a room full of rowdy people I don't know or trying to converse with someone who so obviously doesn't "get" me.
But there are relationships, such as the ones I shared with Chrissy, Sarah and Hilary, that are better than being alone, better than being surrounded by scores of friends and family.
I always imagined marriage to be like that. A bosom buddy like my dear best girl-friends, but different, and I could go home and sleep with him or do dishes for him, pray with him and love on him, be silent or laugh with him. I think of the love described in Song of Solomon or between Ruth and Boaz and suddenly I want it so badly, for the first time, in a long time, I feel...alone.
I think of him as I stare into the water at the buldging, liquid frog eyes peering above the surface. I wonder if this "he" even exists and if he does, on this particular evening alone under the willow tree, I wished he was sitting with me on the roots of my favorite tree, watching the sunset's reflected light fade to black on the water.
Always alone, I walk on the enormous hill in front of the art museum or sit by the expansive fountain at its base and swing my feet over the water. I lay in the grass under a tree and stare at the cloud formations in the sky or the birds soaring silently overhead. I talk to God, my constant, invisible company, so evident in the beauty and life around me.
In the evenings, I climb the fountain across from the boat house and stand on the edge of the pool watching the kids swim near a sign that says, "No swimming in the Fountain." When the sun goes down, I stand transfixed, staring into the water display that shoots beams of light and water into the sky in an ever changing pattern of colors. Other times, I like to stand quietly on a bridge watching the tiny fish make patterns of circles on the surface of the slow moving stream as they nibble gnats that hover above the water.
My favorite spot, however, is a thick, graceful willow tree not far from the boat house and bordering the main pond. I have always adored weeping willows and this one does not disappoint. I often visit the tree in the evenings when the sun is setting and creep quietly through the branches to sit under the swaying canopy. Just barely, I can see the full pond through the leaves. I watch as the light changes from blue to pink, purple to black and the shadow on the water of the weeping branches deepens.
I am always alone. This evening, though, I feel alone.
Being alone is usually not scary for me. I often go out to dinner alone or see a movie in the movie theatre, visit art shows and fairs, the zoo and parks...alone, and it rarely phases me. Hilary, my dear Tucson friend is often horrified to find that I do such things alone. "No! I can't bear to think of you going to see a movie by yourself! Don't go!" When pressed, she tells me why, "I could never do something like that. I would be too nervous."
But I am not nervous! Nervous in my own company? On the contrary, it gives me time to think, to recenter myself, to daydream and staves off lonliness. If I have to be alone, is it better to be stuck in my room with the walls as company or to surround myself with beauty, animals and happy people to watch? The answer seems obvious.
But this evening, as I realize how grateful I am that the frog remains staring at me, I am feeling the weight of being too much alone. I think of the moments compounding into years and years of being alone. As a child, I have memories of playing my cello alone under pine trees, wading in streams alone, spending hours in the car with family alone with my thoughts. In college, I walked the campus graveyards alone (sounds creepy, but I rather like graveyards), did my homework alone in the Chinese garden of the Missouri Botanical garden. Went home alone after weddings of friends and most recently packed up my house in Tucson all alone and moved, alone, to St. Louis.
As much as I love the company of lots of people as well as the moments I spend by myself, I think of a different kind of company. There are a few people in one's life whose company is often better than being alone and better than being surrounded by scores of people.
I think of my best friend, Chrissy, whose heart and mind connected with mine in such a way that we would spend hours laughing until our bladders, literally, gave out...Who would just as easily weep with me in her driveway as we discussed the pain of having broken fathers...who would play hymns on the piano and we would raise our voices together to praise our Lord...who, even after four years of not seeing one another face to face, felt so familiar that it was as if we had been growing together all along.
I think of my best friend, Sarah, whose heart and mind connected with mine in such a way that we would feel perfectly comfortable sitting in silence together as having a deep, spiritual conversation...who would visit Farmer's markets with me and enjoy summers filled with fruit smoothies and evenings swinging on swingsets, or take Sunday afternoon naps together and insist that, "God must sprinkle sleepy dust on Sundays"...who later married my cousin and is now family as well as friend and still manages to love and encourage me miles away in South Korea.
I think of my best friend, Hilary, whose heart and mind connected with mine in such a way that we would pray for our future husbands together, walk through spiritual darkness and uncertainty together...who would train a wild baby quarter horse with me or watch a foal being born and marvel at God's creation...who would sit on my couch and color in coloring books for hours, making dry and hilarious comments until we were rolling...whose paintings covered the walls of my house and who shared my love of literature...and when we were angry or hurt, we would discuss or cry it through until we were bosom buddies yet again.
There are situations that are worse than being alone- such as being in a room full of rowdy people I don't know or trying to converse with someone who so obviously doesn't "get" me.
But there are relationships, such as the ones I shared with Chrissy, Sarah and Hilary, that are better than being alone, better than being surrounded by scores of friends and family.
I always imagined marriage to be like that. A bosom buddy like my dear best girl-friends, but different, and I could go home and sleep with him or do dishes for him, pray with him and love on him, be silent or laugh with him. I think of the love described in Song of Solomon or between Ruth and Boaz and suddenly I want it so badly, for the first time, in a long time, I feel...alone.
I think of him as I stare into the water at the buldging, liquid frog eyes peering above the surface. I wonder if this "he" even exists and if he does, on this particular evening alone under the willow tree, I wished he was sitting with me on the roots of my favorite tree, watching the sunset's reflected light fade to black on the water.
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