Redwood Regional Park, Oakland, CA
My parents always cautioned me against being alone. I think this is the case for most girls, maybe boys too. But even as I got older, finished school, entered the workforce, and accomplished many milestones of adulthood on my own, I still had the uneasy feeling that being alone meant I was putting myself in danger.
Not only had solitude come to mean dangerous, it also had the association of of shame. The assumption we make (more about ourselves than others) is that if we are alone it must be because no one wants to spend time with us. In 1984, Steve Martin made a movie, The Lonely Guy, in which this notion is played out with comedic genius. The main character enters a restaurant and requests a table. The maitre’d asks how many are in the party, and Steve answers, “I’m alone.” The restaurant goes silent, and a spotlight follows Steve as he is led to his table with everyone staring. You can find a clip here: https://youtu.be/Q8L7rzeLcR4.
In reality, alone isn’t usually dangerous if you take a few precautions. And it means nothing about your social desirability. In my forties, I began consciously practicing spending time on my own with the encouragement of my therapist, Robyn. What she had learned as a child, and then passed on to me, is that time alone allows us to hear our innermost wishes, needs, longings, musings, opinions, and preferences. When alone, we can hear the signals that come from our bodies and hearts. We can also act on those signals unimpeded by social norms, politeness, and other relational lubricants.
For those of us who are raised to anticipate and meet other people’s physical and/or emotional needs, these conscious blocks of alone time are healing and restorative. What’s more, when we know that our own company is quite pleasurable, it becomes much easier to decline time with others that would not be very enjoyable. We stop saying yes to invitations just to avoid being alone.
I was in my forties when I began hiking alone. At first I thought I should get a dog for protection. I remember saying this to Robyn, and her response, “it’s more likely that if you happened upon danger, you would end up protecting the dog.”
On my first foray, I visited a local park with hiking trails. The only violence I witnessed was between two dogs, with their people having to intervene at the risk of being scratched or bitten, and I remembered what Robyn had said. One guy walking in the opposite direction was kind enough to warn me that he’d seen a rattlesnake about 100 yards further up the trail. He advised me to find a good walking stick and tap it on the ground as I walked, making vibrations to alert any snakes that someone was approaching.
I have since walked the trails of many local parks, always choosing places frequented by dog walkers, runners and families. Nature feeds me like nothing else. And when I’m alone, I can hone in on the sights and sounds. I like to bring my phone so I can take pictures. The one at the top of this post is a favorite. I’ve also dictated poems (see “Briones Park” below) and ideas into my phone while walking, since the rhythm stirs my creative juices.
After several walks alone, I was invited to join a hiking group. On our first outing, I found myself stressed and resentful, not being able to go at my own pace or listen to my internal dialogue without seeming rude. Listening to others talk about work or politics had the opposite effect of all my solitary walks, and I realized that what Robyn had shared about the joy of solitude was so very true.
I often see movies alone, taking advantage of my unconventional work schedule and going to a bargain matinee before my first client. I also love traveling alone, following my curiosity and wandering wherever I feel drawn.
I have learned more about my happiness from being on my own than I ever could when being alone seemed like a bad thing. What truly brings me joy are unstructured blocks of time spent reading, writing, gardening, cooking, swimming, napping, hiking, or watching a program I like on Netflix.
When I socialize, I am careful about who I spend time with. I have my writing friends, my cooking friends, my friends who play silly games to make each other laugh, and my three or four close, confidants - the only people I actually like to bring on hikes! But if I schedule more than one social event each week, I feel drained and hungry for my quiet time.
If you’re not sure what will bring you joy, imagine being a parent to the kid inside of you. Encourage that curious, open-to-wonder part of you to try one small thing that feels like it might be interesting or fun. If you think you might like painting, take a class to learn the basics and to get an idea of the materials you might need. Then enjoy playing around with the paint on your own. For you it might be sculpture or singing or photography or welding. Who knows? Go where you find little glimmers of interest. Napping totally counts.
Briones Park
I haven't been here in a long, dry year,
not since I twisted my knee, engaging
in the extreme sport of aging. The weeds look reedy,
like that time I planted lettuce too late in the season,
and it bolted in the heat.
Thistle buds are readying to burst,
like fuchsia mouths of old biddies,
full of gossip. They reach my shoulders!
I have never seen them higher than my knees.
The black cows still congregate
in the shady copse of trees my niece calls fairyland.
The cows love the fallen oak there,
it's pokey limbs, perfect for scratching.
The flies, dining on fresh cow pies, hum happily,
like an orchestra, coming into tune.
Fairies dance in the meadow,
dragonflies, monarchs, a Lorquin Admiral
(according to the guide). They glide
above the clover, which is also so much
taller than I've ever seen it.
I remember hating clover as a kid,
scraggly white buds poking out of the lawn,
the hazard it made of stepping on a bee.
Now I worry. The bees should be here, having lunch.
I listen for the buzz.
I hear a lizard skittering in the dry brush.
I hear sizzling - grasses combed by the breeze.
Occasionally a seed pod pops.
Wild turkeys fill the hills with ululation.
I feel, more than hear (so near!), the wings of a crow.
Everywhere, common vetch is showing off,
whoring for the bumblebees. They, at least,
are here, rubbing up against the purple velvet petals.
That wild weed will climb on anything.
The poison oak is covered in vetch.
Deeper in along the path, where
in the fall, secret stocks of chanterelles
appear (I promised not tell you where),
a spider hurries to mend her net, to catch
the feast floating past on a warm waft of air.
Chamomile buds perfume the path where
two dusty golden retrievers run off leash.
They offer gleeful goofy dog smiles, stopping to say,
"Isn't this the best day ever? Wow!
Wow, wow, wow, wow, wow!
A thin stream of water tickles the creek.
My first year here, it rained so much,
hollows filled like basins, where three or four bay laurels
grow from one stout stump. Now those hollows
overflow with powdery, washed out leaves.
It takes me an hour to walk the loop
I used to do in half the time.
But it's my first day back, and many times
I've had to stop, to collect my breath
and the lines for this poem.
As I write, I recall, I used to walk in the fall
and winter. By late April it's usually warmer
than I like for walking. Maybe the weeds
are always reedy in the middle of spring.
Maybe everything is fine.
