I spent thirty-two years alone.
Sometimes I wonder why, but usually I answer the question with an answer understandable to me. And maybe to others.
I am a writer. I was writing for thirty-two years. It’s true. But there’s more to it than that. There’s more because I’m also a thinker. I needed the silence of my home to think through the demons of my psyche, to untangle my enmeshed past from my present to provide any future I had a promise of happiness. I wasn’t unhappy being alone, I was working hard. I was enjoying the nature I am so in tune with. I was on my patio writing poetry. And thinking.
I still feel the texture of the paper, and the pen in my hand. I see the swirls of half and half in my hot coffee in my morning reverie. I see the nasturtium so full of the orange and yellow they burst out in the pots I had on iron stands. The green of the lawn was as if I was seeing it through a photographic filter, brilliant and lush. My moments of writing were an epiphany and a godsend of nourishment for my soul.
I’m writing in the past tense. I haven’t been out on the patio in the beauty of the nature which is there, nor have I been writing poetry. I am a writer, but I am not writing.
Life gives us an hourly challenge in choices. Over the years alone, I set priorities in place. Perhaps surprisingly, people had always come first, and still do.
One day, I simply decided I wanted and needed to be with a man who would love me, and love being cherished. It wasn’t out of loneliness, but I was missing something I had never had. An intimate equal in all ways. It happened for me; the details aren’t important. What is important are my priorities. I’m not loving instead of writing. I will write again. Instead, my thoughts are with him and a challenge he is facing. I am with him, but we all have independent challenges.
I only hope I can be enough of a support to lighten his burden of worry and take care of him. It’s a simple hope and wish.
This is my hourly challenge.