Home Alone

The house is seldom empty these days, but it will be for more than a week, so I've been sitting in silence for the most of the day. It's not that I don't love my life and the people in it. It's only that I need to recharge in quiet.

What I'm listening to now is the sighing of the wind and the chirping of the parakeets. A few minutes ago I had the Sunday talk shows on the radio, but that was producing indigestion, so I'm back to the natural sounds of birds and air.

I may take a cue from Copper and move with the sun. He starts out in the front of the house for the morning rays, then moves around to the back for the afternoon light. He usually finds a square of pure sunshine and lies down in it.

In about an hour the lowering rays will strike the living room couch in an oh-so-inviting way. It may prove too enticing to ignore.

Forty Days

Pretend that you're on a space station, I read this morning in the little book of Lenten devotionals that I picked up, for a dollar, at church. There your existence would be limited — no walks around the neighborhood or spur-of-the-moment drives downtown; and the food, nothing to write home about.

But your vision, your perspective, would be broad. The earth from space, the blue marble.

A funny image, but the more I've pondered it the more it has grown on me. Limiting some parts of life so that others might shine through.

Especially the quiet, contemplative parts, those that thrive without distractions. Time alone to think, to put things in perspective.

Forty days of that? Bring it on!

Wilson

In the movie “Castaway,” Tom Hanks is so lonesome that he befriends a Wilson basketball, invests it with thoughts and emotions, talks to it as he would a pal and is bereft when he loses it. This time last week I was worrying that in my five days at the shore I would start babbling away to my laptop or my bicycle or myself. That I would find a "Wilson" of my own.

As it turns out, I was quite happy alone. A calm feeling took over once I had driven through the worst of the rain on the way to the beach, and it stayed with me during the five precious days I had to myself. Were I to have weeks of solo time, I'm sure I would have gotten lonely, and I was certainly glad to see my family yesterday. But a week or two of solitude is not only manageable, it is essential. I vow to remember this truth in the future.

Meanwhile, I am enjoying the fruits of solitude. The well that was dry is starting to fill again. The muse is not exactly beside me, but she's closer than she was before. And Wilson, well, he's just a basketball.

Below the Noise

In the library this weekend I picked up a book called Listening Below the Noise by Anne LeClaire. I've almost finished it, would have already had I not decided to savor the final chapter. The book grew from the author's decision some years ago to spend a day in silence. The day brought her such peace and creative energy that she decided to spend every other Monday without speaking.

LeClaire has since become a prophet of silence, giving workshops, writing the book. The compromises she proposes — making time for a quiet morning, shutting off e-mail, slowly eating a juicy apple — graft a monastic habit onto a hectic modern life. They seem realistic enough that most any of us could finagle them.

For me they reaffirm the connection between silence and creativity, the need to withdraw in order to produce, to quiet one's self in order to speak.

Independence Day

Here on Chincoteague, the Firemen's Carnival ushers in a month of activity leading up to the annual wild pony swim and auction at the end of the month. We went last night to see the fireworks, a brief but brilliant display that seemed to have ended but then — when everyone had their heads down walking away — surprised us with another burst of color and light.

As I sit on the motel balcony this morning, the parking lot is a scene of mass exodus. Beach chairs and umbrellas go into the trunks of cars, bicycles are lashed to the backs. I'm packed and ready to leave for my new place, one that's closer to the beach. The rest of the family just left for home; I'll stay for a few days on my own.

I check the girls' room to be sure they haven't left anything. All I see is a cicada exoskeleton they found and set on top of the TV. I brought it outside with me. It's cute, in a fierce little way. I'm staring at it now, willing myself not to be sad. It's strange to be staying behind. Strange but good. It may be July 5, but today is my Independence Day.