Sacred Solitude

Anxiety may be the most uncomfortable state human beings can suffer.

Sadness, depression, melancholy can be overwhelming, but there's a stillness and quietness in depression that at least allows us physical rest.  We feel the weight on our shoulders, the crushing weight of our broken hearts and disillusioned minds, and we may even dance with the idea of death...  but the space we are in is deathly quiet.  We sink.  We may even hit bottom, but at least there we stop.

Anxiety doesn't allow this.  The mind races, the heart races, the feeling is as if we are coming out of our skin.  We are charged with energy that can be put to no good use because the mind cannot focus.  We are hurtling ourselves forward on the proverbial rat wheel, charging faster and faster, sweating profusely... going nowhere.  No rest.  No relief.  We itch with worry.  We squirm with overbearing, unwanted, frenetic energy.  Our hearts burn up with desire but go up in flames when no path appears before us.  We are filled with animated, exhausting dread.

This is anxiety.

And we have ways of coping.



We keep the dogs at bay with endless work, compulsive socializing, a drink or two (or three or four), intentional denial ("I just won't think about it"), and near neurotic use of the internet.

We don't allow ourselves to feel lonely or inadequate; we check Facebook for the umpteenth time that day.
We don't allow ourselves to feel our hearts' desires; we fill our schedules with activities that keep us busy enough not to feel the longing.
We don't confront the lack of intimacy and trust in our relationships; we tell ourselves that we are keepings things "light" and "fun."

But deep within our hearts, the yearning for more and the not getting it collide.  And the anxiety is palpable.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

I'm in my last semester of graduate school.

Before this final push toward the finish line began, I felt the need to get in one last breath of the summer, and so I planned a trip to the beach.  Alone.

I knew I needed quiet.  I knew I needed the ocean.  And I knew I needed to clear my mind before the craze of training 30 hours a week, working at my internship 16 hours per week, being in class 8 hours a week, and still finding time to study and see a friendly face every once in a while.

I needed to hit reset on my mind and heart.

So I left Nashville at 5:30am on a Thursday morning and made it to the Gulf Coast by midday.  The sun was shining brightly.  I dropped by bags in my rented condo, dug in one of them for a bathing suit, swapped my traveling get up for a beach version and raced onto the warm, sugary, white sand.  As soon as my travel-weary body sunk into my beach chair, digging my toes in the sand, I knew I'd made the right choice.  I closed my eyes, leaned back, and began to notice how my breathing was mimicking the rhythm of the waves.

The next day brought rain in the morning, and my intention to deepen whatever meager tan I'd been able to attain this summer was squashed.  (We all look better with some color, don't we?)  I had just settled into a book and a cup of coffee in bed when the dogs started howling...

"What are you going to do all day if it rains?"
"You have no one to talk to.  You are all alone."
"How much money are you losing this week by taking these days off?"
"This isn't what you planned.  This rain is ruining your beach vacation.  You've wasted your money."
"Can I afford this?"
"What was I thinking?  I should have just stayed in Nashville."

See, when I stepped out of the routine, out of the predictable ways of curtailing the anxiety, I left the gate wide open.  The dogs came barreling through.

So up came the fears, the worry, the dissatisfaction, the yearning, the longing, the desire, the regrets, and the restlessness.  I only knew one place to turn; I turned to God.

It rained cats and dogs (no pun intended) for the rest of my days at the beach.  And the unavoidable removal of my tanning goal left me with just one other option: to tend to myself.  To nurture my soul.  To listen to my heart.  To be still.  To wait.  To allow silence.

The feelings of loneliness were painful but passed quickly.  The harsh realization of my friendless state catapulted me mercilessly into old wounds that speak of abandonment and fear.  I stayed with my heart.  Listening, tending, praying...

And sometime during my second day of rain, with the sky and the ocean mirroring the other's dull gray hue, I sensed a quiet peace descend on me.  I meditated in a sitting position and when I finished, I was flat on my back, in the most vulnerable human posture - trusting, loving, wanting more...

Loneliness had been transformed into solitude.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

There is an existential unrest about our deepest loneliness.  At the end of the day, in the midst of the most intimate relationships, surrounded by our children, joined to our mates, enjoying our families, and seeking out our closest friends... we are still alone.  No one knows our soul, no one sees our heart, no one reads our minds or perceives our thoughts.  Except God.  In the end, God is the truest and most loyal companion of the human soul.

Henri Nouwen calls the lone nature of God, in that He is the only God, His "divine solitude."

I cannot claim this.  But I can claim that solitude has become sacred to me.  I have been transformed from one who seeks to fill a vacuum to one who protects my solitude fiercely.  Loneliness speaks of emptiness.  It speaks of a vacancy.  Solitude speaks of intentional choice to be with oneself, and therefore with God.

Get some time alone.