On Becoming A Hermit
I've probably started this initial post 15 times over the last two months... Finding just the right topic has been surprisingly difficult. At first I'd planned on giving a recap of the last couple of years. But I realized that I'm not quite ready to share that story with the Internet. Besides, the lessons I learned across the last couple of years are far more important than the stories of how I learned them. The stories will come out over time, as I talk about those lessons.
Then, I figured I'd talk about my love life or lack there of. It's something that I think about a lot and have really been evaluating over the last few months, but in light of recent circumstances it doesn't seem appropriate at the moment (I'll explain in a minute just be patient) This is a topic I'll definitely touch on at a later date because I feel like it's definitely something I should write about though.
So the topic I've settled on is something that I've had a really rocky relationship with through my adult life. It's something that has brought me a great joy and great misery. It's something that is honestly at the very core of my soul and is a huge part of what makes me... Well... Me.
Solitude.
The first time I was aware of the idea of solitude was when I was 8 years old and we lived on a mountain. There were no kids on my street and my closest friends lived far enough away that I really only saw them at school. I spent a lot of time by myself that year. While I do have memories of spending time with friends, my most vivid memories are of spending time alone. When there wasn’t snow on the ground, I played in the woods, chasing squirrels, climbing trees. When it was too cold to play outside, I read, retreating into a fantasy world all my own. That was the year I decided I wanted to be a writer.
I’d been laying on my favorite branch of my favorite climbing tree, it was probably mid-late summer because I remember the wind being warm and unusually dry as it threatened to knock me from my perch. I think that’s when I fell in love with the wind, feeling it whip around me, feeling so alive. I dreamed of adventure, of coonskin caps and living in trees as I read My Side of The Mountain, Call of the Wild, Julie of the Wolves, Where the Red Fern Grows (I was a precocious reader). This was the first time I remember truly enjoying my own company. I got lost in my own imagination in that tree, creating adventures for myself.
As a kid I embraced solitude as a time to read and imagine and create, but as I grew older, I found myself struggling with solitude more and more. When we moved from Alaska to Georgia, removed from everything I’d known, I found myself truly lonely for the first time.
That loneliness grew as I got older. In a world that values extroversion and having huge friend groups, I felt out of place and like I was missing out by not having people to spend my every waking moment with. Society had trained me to think that solitude was something to be hated.
I am a textbook introvert. I’m sure I’ll talk about that in a later post, but what is relevant here is that I need solitude. I need time to myself, to think, to recharge, to connect and develop a deep, meaningful relationship with myself. This is something I only recently realized.
I’ve spent much of the last 10 years trying to escape solitude. But what I recently realized is that I am no longer lonely by myself. Since the beginning of 2016 I’ve begun to enjoy my own company, much like I did in that tree when I was 8. When people encroach on my solitude too much, I find myself exhausted. That’s not to say I don’t enjoy being around people. I have several friends that I see on a regular basis and I enjoy their company very much. But if I don’t see them for several weeks, I’m perfectly fine with that. They’ll be there when I need them and I love them for that.
2016 has already been a year of personal growth for me. But unlike the growth I experienced in 2015, this has been easy. It’s been a lot of quiet introspection, rediscovering who I am, learning to take my own advice. Maybe 2016 is my Thoreau year, the year that I become an introspective, philosophical hermit. At least for awhile. I think I’m cool with that.
Then, I figured I'd talk about my love life or lack there of. It's something that I think about a lot and have really been evaluating over the last few months, but in light of recent circumstances it doesn't seem appropriate at the moment (I'll explain in a minute just be patient) This is a topic I'll definitely touch on at a later date because I feel like it's definitely something I should write about though.
So the topic I've settled on is something that I've had a really rocky relationship with through my adult life. It's something that has brought me a great joy and great misery. It's something that is honestly at the very core of my soul and is a huge part of what makes me... Well... Me.
Solitude.
The first time I was aware of the idea of solitude was when I was 8 years old and we lived on a mountain. There were no kids on my street and my closest friends lived far enough away that I really only saw them at school. I spent a lot of time by myself that year. While I do have memories of spending time with friends, my most vivid memories are of spending time alone. When there wasn’t snow on the ground, I played in the woods, chasing squirrels, climbing trees. When it was too cold to play outside, I read, retreating into a fantasy world all my own. That was the year I decided I wanted to be a writer.
I’d been laying on my favorite branch of my favorite climbing tree, it was probably mid-late summer because I remember the wind being warm and unusually dry as it threatened to knock me from my perch. I think that’s when I fell in love with the wind, feeling it whip around me, feeling so alive. I dreamed of adventure, of coonskin caps and living in trees as I read My Side of The Mountain, Call of the Wild, Julie of the Wolves, Where the Red Fern Grows (I was a precocious reader). This was the first time I remember truly enjoying my own company. I got lost in my own imagination in that tree, creating adventures for myself.
As a kid I embraced solitude as a time to read and imagine and create, but as I grew older, I found myself struggling with solitude more and more. When we moved from Alaska to Georgia, removed from everything I’d known, I found myself truly lonely for the first time.
That loneliness grew as I got older. In a world that values extroversion and having huge friend groups, I felt out of place and like I was missing out by not having people to spend my every waking moment with. Society had trained me to think that solitude was something to be hated.
I am a textbook introvert. I’m sure I’ll talk about that in a later post, but what is relevant here is that I need solitude. I need time to myself, to think, to recharge, to connect and develop a deep, meaningful relationship with myself. This is something I only recently realized.
I’ve spent much of the last 10 years trying to escape solitude. But what I recently realized is that I am no longer lonely by myself. Since the beginning of 2016 I’ve begun to enjoy my own company, much like I did in that tree when I was 8. When people encroach on my solitude too much, I find myself exhausted. That’s not to say I don’t enjoy being around people. I have several friends that I see on a regular basis and I enjoy their company very much. But if I don’t see them for several weeks, I’m perfectly fine with that. They’ll be there when I need them and I love them for that.
2016 has already been a year of personal growth for me. But unlike the growth I experienced in 2015, this has been easy. It’s been a lot of quiet introspection, rediscovering who I am, learning to take my own advice. Maybe 2016 is my Thoreau year, the year that I become an introspective, philosophical hermit. At least for awhile. I think I’m cool with that.
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