The Joy of Alone


10009813_1475881882626096_2055759745_nThe day was gloomy and rainy, reflecting the weariness that she felt in her very bones. All week long, it had been go, go, go. Meetings and lessons, get-togethers and dinners. People. All week: people. Finally, it was today. She stepped up to the window, asking for one ticket to the movie. The attendant might have looked at her a little askance but, if they did, she didn’t notice or at least affected not to. She garnered herself a small popcorn and a drink, inhaling the warm buttery smell of the theatre. It was smell that never failed to take her back to childhood when this was an unforeseen treat: going to the movies. Strolling through the multiplex, she made her way to the screening room where her chosen movie was showing. Stepping into the already semi darkness, she mounted the stairs to the very top row of high-backed, plush seats, scooting down the row until she was centered with the giant screen. The sweet spot.

Finally satisfied, she lowered herself down in her seat, stowing her bag,  drink, and snack, and making herself as comfortable in her temporary little nest as she could, padding it with the soft of her coat. And then, at last, she slouched in the chair, exhaling a heavy siiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiigh. Alone. It was early, the theatre was practically empty, and she was alone. And the only word she would use to describe it?

Joyous.

As the theatre darkened and her favorite part of the movie-going experience (the previews) began, she snuggled down into her seat, grabbed her popcorn, and inhaled its nostalgic scent once more. This. This was joy. If just for these moments. Just…being alone.

All Alone, On My Own.


I ran across this picture this morning that Word Porn had posted on Facebook, along with the question, “Do you spend enough time alone?” The answer was instantaneous for me.

No. No, I don’t.

I used to spend a goodly amount of time alone, which is kind of integral for someone with my personality. It was when I would recharge, when I would get my energy back. It’s when I recounted my experiences, searching through my thoughts and my emotions, and figured things out. It was also when I relaxed. There were those quiet hours on Saturday morning, just me, my coffee/hot chocolate, the cat, and the TV/book/front porch/whatever I needed that day. There was the hour or so spent watching movie trailers on Hulu and getting excited for new stories being told.  There was quiet time with just me and my journal, my thoughts pouring out to be pored over and their implications considered. But, of course, ever since having my daughter in 2012, that’s rather gone out the window.

During the summer, I would grab my alone time while Bizzy napped. My exercises, a shower, lunch, and perhaps even time to read, journal, and nap. Now, it’s winter, she’s older, more mobile and active, and naps don’t last nearly as long. I am also less active, not being able to go outside nearly as often, so I tend to opt to nap when she does now over anything else, for fear of waking her as well as being just exhausted.

I have to admit, I miss being alone. I miss being quiet and reading. I, a noted bibliophile, have read finished only one novel since Bizzy was born over a year ago (though I have memorized Ten Little Fairies), and I’m practically over the moon that I have read almost 100 pages of Diane Setterfield’s Bellman and Black.  I miss watching people, getting lost in a crowd, content in not being noticed while I observe the world around me. Yep, I miss being alone.

I’m not telling people to go away. I’m not saying that I am tired of my daughter. I am just an introvert who misses her alone time.