Sacred solitude

My apartment’s artwork is packed and boxes are stacked hip high. This room -- once filled with framed photos and items reminding me of the time I spent wandering the world -- now only contains leftover crumbs of myself. I lived well here, if only for a little while.

I move into my new place tomorrow, and I feel a pang of grief, or rather, nostalgia when I think of the girl who arrived here six months ago. This space held me through my first real attempt at solitude.

Solitude; a place that seemed so scary on the outside. So much so that I’ve spent my life dodging its teachings, worried that if I went there, I’d lose myself, or at least get so far outside of the ‘normal’ template of life that I wouldn’t know how to make my way back.

But solitude… this feeling has me continually returning, hungry for more.  It rears fear and yet a deep craving that I feel in my bones and heart. It causes me to question why I’ve experienced many endings -- why this is the place I’ve been encouraged to come back to.

I think back on the times in my life that solitude seemed to tug at my heart, aching for me to indulge in it. These moments were always met with resistance; I was unable to ignore the pressure cracking my chest wide open in desperation for love. So I measured my life with lovers; with connection and chemistry as a validation of my worth.

I’ve experienced loneliness in partnership and I’ve partnered out of loneliness. I’ve needed. Greeded. And I’m no longer interested. I think back on when I would mold myself to fit someone else’s idea of who I was. Dim my light, subdue my quirks, quieten my pulse -- as if even that was too much.

Psychology teachings make me question solitude. Do I have an avoidant attachment style? Am I afraid of intimacy? Is there a reason I’ve never been serious with someone? I believe the answer to these questions, at times, has been a ‘yes.’ And, this answer doesn’t define me; I know what love feels like.

So again, I return here. I rest here -- if only for a little bit. I take a break from the seeking I’ve been conditioned to; the incessant focus on what’s out there to fill up what’s in here. I pause from the myth that I need someone to fix me, heal me, want me for my existence to be validated. Wholeheartedly, and with a little habitual resistance, I choose me, instead.

Stillness. Solitude. Aloneness...

And in this rest, I notice the slight twinge in my chest that asks if it will always be like this; will I be alone forever? But behind that thought, I hear the voice that gently invites me to finally surrender and gain the medicine that solitude offers.

So I dive into this feeling. Written words. Weathered books. Fresh cooking. I adorn my home and grow my plants because my heart craves it and my body wants it. I get back to those things that connect me to Mother Nature -- hands in the soil. Barefeet in the dirt. Primal.

I let this feeling carry me forward -- to an undetermined destination that is not really a destination at all. To simply feel the medicine of stillness and introspection. Because even inaction can have momentum.

Like turning a page into a new chapter, I experience my emotions like I’m feeling each for the first time, unclouded by the doubt and mistrust about the timing of my life. I start realizing that I have little control, and how when I join the flow of what is already here, it feels a lot easier. Fun, even.

I finally understand why I’ve been so discerning -- because somehow, in my heart, I knew that I couldn’t miss this.

This sacred time -- this time in solitude.

This time to nurture my feminine.

This time to grow my roots.

This time to experience life with a different lens -- not as the independent, empowered woman but as a deeply feeling and alive human who has to learn to create her own container to hold all of her before anyone else can.

This time to claim who I know I am. To remember who I’ve always been, and re-partner with who I desire to be.

And in solitude I realize that maybe there is no polarity between it and partnership, but rather a oneness -- a union -- when I partner with myself. The two ends of this spectrum bleed into one when I’m with myself, not separate. I think about how perhaps there is space for both; in a full breath. Morning light. Evening spent soaking the last rays of the setting sun.

I begin to get braver. I walk barefoot and feel every callous and edge of the earth pressing into my toes. Like that feeling when your skin is in the sand and your heart is calm -- my truth becomes bold and unapologetic:

Perhaps partnership is what takes me higher but for the first time in my life I love indulging in solitude so I can taste what’s lower.

As often as I need, I’ll continue to meet myself here again.

 Writing prompts:

1. How do you feel in your body when you consider solitude?

2. What (if any) coping mechanisms have you learned to use to avoid solitude?

3. In what ways do you seek validation from others?

4. When you think of partnership, how do you feel in your body?

5. How could you choose to partner with yourself?