Loneliness expresses the pain of being alone and solitude expresses the glory of being alone.  --Paul Tillich
 
I have not been truly alone often in my life.  I was a semi-solitary child, and I loved roaming the meadow and woods behind my childhood home as much as I loved playing with the neighbors.  My mother was somewhat protective and made sure I checked in often.  I lived with my family until I went to college.  There, I lived with roommates and, again, at home, until I got married.  Since then, I’ve had a husband and two children to be accountable to—and for.  In my professional life, I worked as a waitress, sold cosmetics and cooking tools, and taught school—all of which required other people to be present.  I’ve had moments of solitude, to be sure, but not great stretches of time alone. 
 
Only alone can I draw close enough to God to discover His secrets.  --George Washington Carver
 
A Native American tradition of solitude, the vision quest, makes the assumption that one may come to know one’s purpose by being physically alone, reliant on no one else, clearing the mind and body, meditating, and being open to spiritual guidance.  This guidance will benefit the whole community, even though it is personal and sacred to the individual.[i] 
 
Catholics, Quakers, Buddhists, and Jews all have traditions mandating seclusion.  Authors, artists, philosophers, and scientists realize that creativity, problem-solving, contemplation, and reverie thrive in privacy, prior to collaboration.  Emerson[ii], Thoreau[iii], Hemingway[iv], and Dickinson[v] wrote about solitude.  Picasso and Vermeer painted it.  Michelangelo and Rodin sculpted it.

Being solitary is being alone well: being alone luxuriously immersed in doings of your own choice, aware of the fullness of your own presence rather than of the absence of others.  Because solitude is an achievement.  --Alice Koller
 
Three times I have been in situations where I considered myself truly solitary—accountable to myself rather than others and not being responsible for anyone else.  Once, I was left behind from a family reunion to attend professional training.  I had the house to myself for a week, which was illuminating.  I could go where I chose, when I chose.  I could eat what I wanted and sleep when I wanted.  I discovered an inner peace I wasn’t sure I had. 
 
Twice, I traveled to Paris for education: first, as a twenty year-old college student and, second, to receive French teacher training.  In both instances, I went with groups, but didn’t know anyone before I registered. 
 
On each trip, it took time before I felt comfortable being alone—walking the streets of Paris, riding the Metro, wandering a museum, on my own.  However, when I was by myself, I had amazing experiences. 
 
During my Study Abroad, at the end of a rare solitary afternoon, I walked to the Musée Grévin, the Paris wax museum. I planned to look at the unusual architecture and return to the pension.  As I was standing in front, a handsome young Frenchman approached and asked if I was American.  We talked for a minute, and he asked if I would go to the café with him to practice his English. I said I had to enter the museum for my class, assuming he would go away.  He asked for my phone number, to meet another time.  I collected a pen and paper from the lady at the entrance and wrote the first digits of the pension’s number, but made sure the last digit wasn’t correct.  Then I paid my fee to the same lady, who gave me a dirty look, and went into the museum alone.  I felt empowered that I had kept myself safe.  And I actually enjoyed the museum more on my own.  
 
Recently, I returned to France with four other French teachers and our professor.  While there, I broke my ankle—which is another story altogether.  Because I tired easily, I opted out of the shopping trip after class one day.  Instead, I stopped at several places to take pictures and enjoy the uniqueness and beauties of the neighborhood.  Since I was alone, I took my time, staying, resting, and leaving when I wanted.  I lingered at the Place Stravinsky, the Église St-Merri, and the Tour St-Jacques.  After I exited the Metro at Montrouge, two older women stopped me on the street, asking in French what I had done to my leg and then asking about our trip.  I was able to speak to them in their own language and thank them for their concern.  If I had been with the other teachers, I’m sure they would not have stopped and questioned me.  I gained confidence as I explained myself in another language.

The hardest thing about doing the right thing for yourself is you usually have to do it alone.  --Po Bronson, What Should I Do With My Life?
 
I took a sabbatical this year, a Western cultural tradition of solitude.  I have used the time to be alone, slow down, and regroup.  With children grown, and that portion of my life ending, I needed to redefine myself.  Instead, I am rediscovering myself.  
 
Ester Buchholz said, “Now, more than ever, we need our solitude. Being alone gives us the power to regulate and adjust our lives. It can teach us fortitude and the ability to satisfy our own needs. A restorer of energy, the stillness of alone experiences provides us with much-needed rest. It brings forth our longing to explore, our curiosity about the unknown, our will to be an individual, our hopes for freedom. Alonetime is fuel for life.”[vi] 
 
I glory in my current solitude.  I consider it a sacred quest.  I am allowing myself to ponder, to create, and to grow.  I am developing talents, nourishing mind and body, and discovering weaknesses and strengths.  I will leave this self-imposed seclusion with a renewed vision of my life, stronger and wiser, able to benefit my community. 
 
The Word comes not to the noisemakers but to those who are silent.  --Dietrich Bonhoeffer, Life Together

Endnotes:
[i] http://native-americans-online.com/native-american-vision-quest.html, accessed January 26, 2017.   
 
[ii] Society and Solitude.
 
[iii] Walden.
 
[iv] The Old Man and the Sea, as one example. 
 
[v] Poem 18 
There is another Loneliness
That many die without -
Not want of friend occasions it
Or circumstances of Lot

But nature, sometimes, sometimes thought
And whoso it befall
Is richer than could be revealed
By mortal numeral
--Emily Dickinson
 
Poem 777
The Loneliness One dare not sound-
And would as soon surmise
As in its Grave go plumbing
To ascertain the size-

The Loneliness whose worst alarm
Is lest itself should see-
And perish from before itself
For just a scrutiny-

The Horror not to be surveyed-
But skirted in the Dark-
With Consciousness suspended-
And Being under Lock-

I fear me this-is Loneliness-
The Maker of the soul
Its Caverns and its Corridors
Illuminate-or seal-
--Emily Dickinson
 
[vi] Buchholz, Ester. “The Call of Solitude,” Psychology Today, January 1, 1998, https://www.psychologytoday.com/articles/199801/the-call-solitude, accessed January 28, 2017.   

While my daughter was home for Christmas, she and I drove out to Antelope Island.   We had seen videos of geometric ice blocks crashing against the causeway, shifting as if they were alive, and wanted to see them for ourselves. 
 
It was late afternoon as we traveled the causeway toward the island, noting places we wanted to photograph on the way back.  Shadows were long and the vista was longer.  The Great Salt Lake stretched to the horizon, framed by the smoky purplish hills of the island and the lowering sun.  We saw only two or three cars while we crossed the causeway, but as we approached the island itself, we noticed a few parked at the base of the hill heading onto the island.  In a small bit of snowy grass surrounded by the icy blue lake, the concrete causeway, and the island itself, stood a large bison. 
 
We parked in a small lot on the opposite side of the causeway, and while I grabbed my camera, my daughter beat me to the other side and had already taken several photos with her phone.  I focused and fiddled with my camera settings and prepared to capture this serendipitous moment. 
 
I looked through the viewfinder to see the bison fix his large brown eyes on us and start moving slowly our way. 

I want to say that my first thought was for my daughter’s safety—that was certainly in my mind, but I don’t remember.  That bison approaching us filled me with so much fear I only took one picture, even though I knew this might be a once-in-a-lifetime chance.  I said, “I think we’d better go back to the car.”  And I started backing up. 
 
My daughter, on the other hand, kept taking pictures.  I told her again that we ought to return to the car.  She said we had nothing to worry about—look how far away the bison was!  My mind swirled with news reports of large animal attacks.  Mother’s instinct failed me as I kicked into flight mode and began walking across the causeway to the parking lot.  In the middle of the road, I turned and snapped two shots of my daughter still watching the bison.

I reached the car before she started back.  We turned away from the island, stopping at several places along the causeway to shoot pictures of blue ice and water birds and grassy beach and orange sunset.  At each stop, although I had the really good camera, and she just had a cellphone, my daughter was the one on her knees, or climbing over rocks, or walking through long grass, to get a better shot. 
 
How had I raised a young woman with this kind of courage?  I contrasted our reactions.  I am ashamed that fear overcame my core protective instincts and mother-love, that I am not more flexible in body and spirit.  I realize her youth and relative inexperience give her boldness.  I recall that she attended a university across the country from us, wandered Paris alone during her study abroad, lived on the south side of Chicago for eighteen months as a church missionary, and returned to the east coast to work.  She had made friends with gang members, southern belles, college professors, and Hispanic immigrants.  She had practiced choosing courage. 
 
I am beginning to consciously grow my courage.  I am venturing out of my comfort zone currently, as I learn to nourish my body and soul, as I cultivate lifelong interests into talents.