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.

My friend Lisa recently shared with me that during the early days of her career, while working in the public relations department of ABC-TV, she kept a hand written sign on her desk that said, ‘2000 years from now when they dig us all up…’ She said it helped her put things in perspective, say, when a copy editor decided to make  changes to her brilliant, hard-worked piece.

‘2000 years from now when they dig us all up…’ If ever there were a phrase with the power to change lives, this is it. In only a few days, it has already brought me a great deal of solace. It’s even better than what I usually tell myself when the fur starts to fly. Phrases like ‘it’s all an illusion’ don’t seem to have the same pithy ring as this ‘2000 years from now’ thing. It seems to get right to the heart of the matter. I am even thinking of making a sign to wear around my neck to serve as a constant reminder.

Not that I need it so much anymore, for most things that is. The older I get, the more I try to tap into my inner Zen. I can wait calmly listening to incessant repetitions of “your call is important to us.” I can forgo firing off obscenities at a driver who has just cut in front of me. I can graciously forgive the waiter who forgets all about my table and, heaven forbid, my hunger. Even ending up on the torturous front row of the movie theater without due notice no longer sends me into even a minor tailspin.

‘2000 years from now when they dig us all up…’ Can you see how helpful this little phrase could be? From little Dylan’s “D” in math to gifted Gabe’s “No” from Yale. From the computer’s mega crash to the ten pound gain in just one week. Pfff! As we say in the Garden State, fuggetaboutit.

OK, so much for the small stuff, those irritating little annoyances of the day to day. What about dem big potatoes? The lost jobs, the disappearing banks, the receding 401s, the homeowners with no homes. There seems to be a whole lot to really be upset about these days. Don’t know about you, but many a morning I wake up with a great big knot inside, knowing I have to figure out how I can untangle it before starting my day. Anyone who’s paying attention knows something big is going on, and personally, I’m hoping I can muster up whatever it takes to get through it.

Courage? Faith? Determination? Grit? The question is “have I got enough of what I need to see me through?” Who knows? But as someone who’s a believer in self-help from way back, I’m up for trying just about anything. I welcome whatever tools show up. To add to my growing arsenal of handy-dandy de-stressors, which includes turning off the TV, sitting quietly, a friend’s shoulder, deep breaths, a long walk, a glass(es) of wine, dancing barefoot to Jerry Lee Lewis and now this – ‘2000 years from now …’  I’m already feeling better.

A couple of weeks ago I saw Brad Pitt interviewed by Larry King. When asked what had sold him on doing his latest movie, he talked about his friendship with both the writer and the director and then added, “As I get older, it’s more about the company I keep. Who I spend my time with becomes much more important than anything else.”

Me too, Brad. That’s why the next phase of my life will be spent living in a commune. (At this moment, readers roll eyes and wonder aloud, “How could she still be such a hippie in 2009, and what kind of communist is she anyway?”) Yes, a commune.

And there is no arguing with me about this one. To my way of thinking, it solves a whole lot of problems – the lack of time, the lack of money, the lack of human interaction. The lack of community. It provides the perfect solution to childcare, elder care and pet care, not to mention ridiculously high utility bills. Sharing resources, living within a group of wonderful people could make life easier, could make the pesky job of staying alive much less cumbersome. Certainly much more enjoyable.

So here’s the vision. Some land in a beautiful place. A main house or lodge along the lines of the Iroquois or Algonquin long house only not necessarily in that shape and not made of elm bark. This is the communal space for cooking, eating, music jams, sing-a-longs, film nights, discussions and dance nights.

For those already nervous about their privacy and their needed alone time, there will be yurt-like structures surrounding the lodge just for that. They will be beautifully simple, low maintenance structures made from materials still to be determined. Not to worry, though, we will forgo the traditional felt covering made from the wool of the sheep of the Central Asian Steppes. Compact and cozy, these yurts will be big enough for cooking, eating, sleeping, bathing, working and lounging.

Imagine this. Each of us in this happy group is doing what it is he or she likes to do. The ones who like to go out into the world and make money still get to do that. The ones who like to take care of the kids get to help out the ones who are the parents. Those who love to play in the garden get to provide the food. Those who love to cook will get to nourish us all. The old ones who like to sit around and tell stories will have ready listeners. The chores, the stuff no one likes to do will be shared. So will the sadness, so will the laughter. And someone will always be up for a hand or two of poker, or scrabble or dominoes or a walk or a talk.

This notion of mine is nothing new, hardly radical. There have been intentional communities right here in the United States as far back as 1804, way before my coming of age in the ‘back-to-the-land’ movement of the 1960s. Whether founded for political, egalitarian, alternative family, mystical or religious principals – communes seem to make sense to a lot of people. For me, just like for Brad Pitt, it’s all about the company I keep.

Right now, I don’t have the land, the funds, the fellow commune-ists. The “how” completely escapes me. I only have the vision. But I’ve lived long enough to know, it always starts with the vision.