When my partner and I moved in together in 2005, she let me know pretty much right off the bat that she required several hours to herself to paint on Saturdays. Neither of us could afford studios outside our flat in San Francisco, so we needed to negotiate time alone at home. To be honest, I wasn’t sure what to do with myself at first. And I felt a little odd heading out on my own.
But, true to my word, I left the apartment that first Saturday and, for lack of a better plan, took the MUNI down to the farmer’s market at the Embarcadero. I strolled around, ate delicious food from stands, and listened to street musicians. I had always loved hiking, so when I was finished with the market, I decided to walk the six miles home.
I didn’t realize it at the time, but these Saturdays were the beginning of my training in solitude, of learning how to be alone in the world. And becoming utterly at peace in that aloneness.
Maybe because I grew up in a small town in Maine, the city fascinated me. There was so much to see and explore. I admired the architecture of buildings, paused to take in views, people-watched, stopped for tea, discovered a new thrift store. Before I knew it, nearly an entire day had passed and I realized I hadn’t actually talked to anyone. This soon became my Saturday routine and as time passed, my self-consciousness about being alone slowly faded. I began to crave my Saturday wanders, missing them when occasional weekend plans interfered.
I didn’t realize it at the time, but those Saturdays were the beginning of my training in solitude, of learning how to be alone in the world. And becoming utterly at peace in that aloneness. As the months and years passed by, I came to deeply value and protect my solitude.
Maria Popova has written beautifully on the value of solitude and its relationship to creative work on her Brain Pickings blog. “Our capacity for what psychoanalyst Adam Phillips has termed ‘fertile solitude’ is absolutely essential not only for our creativity, but for the basic fabric of our happiness,” she notes. “Without time and space unburdened from external input and social strain, we’d be unable to fully inhabit our interior life, which is the raw material of all art.”
My days in the city ended when we left California to move to Maine in 2010. Life picked up pace. I got a studio outside the house. I juggled teaching on the weekends alongside my full time job at Maine College of Art. With my painting practice, I had time alone, but something was missing. I needed to be alone, but I wanted to be alone in the world outside, a world of views and movement and light.
And so, I rediscovered my love of hiking. It became the easiest and the quickest way to connect to my interior life. With a good pair of sneakers, some water, and a few snacks, I can happily be off for hours at a time. Without fail, walking helps to slow my thoughts, to clear and settle my mind, and leaves me pleasantly tired and calm. In the process, I have time to observe what is happening around me, to listen, to make a few sound recordings, and to create the circumstances in which new ideas might arise.
When I returned to California to teach a three day workshop this past February, I knew that in addition to spending time with my students, I would be visiting many friends. To balance the output of energy these activities required, I planned a day alone. I woke early, picked up a sandwich and a date bar at the local market, and drove to Point Reyes Station, a much beloved, tiny little town surrounded by national seashore and farmland.
The weather was perfect - sunny with just the right amount of wind. Though the lot at the base of the trail was fairly full, the trail was long enough that hikers spread out and I was able to be alone. I walked just shy of ten miles on the winding trail with sweeping views of the ocean and herds of Tule Elk scattered across the hills. As the hours passed and the chatter inside my brain quieted, I felt some part of myself return. After the hike, I gave myself a few more hours exploring a bookstore in town before heading back to rejoin the friends with whom I was staying.
My twenty-something self would have been too self-conscious to spend a day alone. My forty-five year old self is comfortable in her own skin, trained in solitude from hours in the studio, but also from those days spent wandering the streets of San Francisco. I revel in the pleasure of my own company and uninterrupted thoughts. There is a quality of spaciousness within my mind during time alone that feels critical to my creativity.
Another thing about solitude is that it seems to almost have a different pace to it. It feels slower. And that feels really important in a loud and busy world.
I was listening to a podcast recently which, although it was about climate change, spoke to these ideas and to the situation we are collectively facing right now as we shelter in place, find ourselves suddenly unemployed, the normal patterns of our days interrupted. The podcast is Invisibilia and the episode was “Two Heartbeats A Minute,” which is a reference to the heartbeat of the world’s largest mammal - a blue whale.
A recent experiment by Stanford University ocean biologist Jeremy Goldbogen involved an electrocardiogram attached to a blue whale. It revealed that their heartbeats can slow to just two beats per minute as they search for food below the surface of the ocean. “Maybe the process of slowing down will help us see more clearly all the things that we need to do, all the ways we need to act,” suggests podcast host Alix Spiegel. “Let's practice right now - slowing down. Let's try to use a tempo that's more like the tempo you hear when you listen to the heartbeat of a whale. It's a hard thing to slow your tempo. A slower tempo feels strange and uncomfortable and sometimes even morally wrong. So much of the world is encouraging us to push faster, harder, farther.”
Solitude can feel strange and uncomfortable at first too. At least, it did for me. I think it’s because when we are by ourselves we are less distracted by the world and by others. We are alone with our thoughts, our private fears, our frustrations. But in that aloneness there is a deep underwater world of richness; a place where we can locate inner spaciousness, tap into new ideas, and refill the well of our creativity.