Alone. Not Lonely

I have always been a loner. Most of the time, I prefer being by myself. In my youth, I was perfectly content to bury myself in a book for hours, oblivious to the activities of those around me, pointedly ignoring the agreeable din created by my loquacious and incessantly busy three sisters. When I wanted to be left alone, any trespasser on my solitude was given the meagerest scrap of attention I could muster. 

This markedly egocentric character trait has always been both a boon and a blessing. A boon in cases where undiluted concentration was a must, such as when sequestered to write; and a blessing when I found myself utterly alone due to a series of unfortunate circumstances quite beyond my control.  

I use the term alone. But the truth is we are never alone. Not really. God is there. The only one who has promised never to leave or forsake us.

Yet, I was alone in my grief and far removed from the only one—an only child—who delightfully intruded upon my solitude. Refreshed me with her youth. Cheered me with her exuberance and ringing laughter. 

I reasoned, “I am accustomed to being alone,” and had never experienced loneliness before this. But the “missing” created a new awareness of what it meant to be truly alone.

Alone. 

The very word conjures emotions beyond our capacity to adequately express. 

Alone.

A word that conjures descriptors of heartbreaking realities.  Partnerless. Childless. Parentless. Friendless.

Alone. 

A terror. An un-faceable foe.

Although being alone was an entirely new experience, I recognized loneliness as an enemy to be mercilessly withstood. I refused to go to the level of it. I would not be its victim. The battle raged.

One day—still reeling from my incomprehensible loss—I came across a black and white photograph of a battered piece of driftwood on a beach. The starkness of the depiction of utter loneliness moved me to tears. I wept because the driftwood seemed so brave in its aloneness. The photo was by a renowned photographer who had lost his only son. His feelings of aloneness in the loss had inexplicably transferred to the medium. 

I knew the photo was me. 

The photo is us.

Then I knew. We are never alone. There are millions of us in the same boat.