Sixties Chick

“I am so lonely,” a friend tells me the other day, awash in tears. “Me too,” I say, “at times.” Neither of us has a mate so our being lonely would make sense to most people, I suppose. At a party a few months back, when I mentioned that I had been going through a lonely spell, two women friends of mine looked at me in astonishment. “Isn’t your daughter at home these days?” asked one. “Yes,” I replied, “what, you never feel lonely with your husbands around?” I could see that they got it, instantly.

Now please, so you don’t go thinking “oh, so sad for her,” let me clarify. I’ve got three wonderful sisters who I talk to regularly, friends who I love and who call often, a daughter who’s around this year between colleges, a dog who loves me more than anyone else on earth and neighbors who I frequently talk to in my “comings” and “goings” during the day. But sometimes, I just feel lonely.

Opportunities abound for fellowship. A Tuesday night jam at a house around the corner, dinners with friends, trips to the Adirondacks for cross-country skiing, movies, assorted committee meetings, a concert here and there. Some I instigate, like an impromptu Saturday night of dancing, of pulling back the rug and moving the furniture in the living room. Still, sometimes, I just feel lonely.

OK, you might say, it’s because of my work, hours at my desk, alone in the office, me and the computer, with the occasional nudge on the thigh from Rio, my loyal companion. Maybe if I were busier, had more work, volunteered more, a fuller agenda, more kids, I wouldn’t be so lonely. Maybe so, but I see a nation of people running 24/7, busy as little beavers, and they seem pretty lonely to me.

Again, let me be clear. I love to be alone. I relish it. I can find something to do to entertain myself without even trying. Hours can pass without my noticing. Give me a book and a sofa, and I’m content. Still, sometimes, I just feel lonely.

Loneliness. The feeling comes, the feeling goes. And I don’t think it matters if you’re top in your field or on the social registry, or a celebrity rock star. Aside from the holy men on the mountain tops, it seems to be a very human thing. It’s kind of like the sore throat I had the other day. It hurt like hell; it was all I could think about while it was here. Then it went away and I forgot all about it.

As I get older and wiser, I find that working my way through loneliness is not always about plotting the next activity, nor even about reaching out to others – though sometimes either one can be just what the doctor ordered. No, sometimes it’s about sitting down in a quiet place, doing nothing, and shutting out the noise of my ever fruitful mind (closing of eyes, optional.) Instead of going outside of myself… these days, I’m going inside. Counterintuitive as it may sound, and much as I may resist, I am beginning to think that getting through the loneliness is about sitting quietly, all by my lonesome – just me, myself and I. (Ai, Yi, Yi.) Alas, instead of traveling to Timbuktu, I best be taking the trip within.

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