Although immersing myself in jigsaw puzzles has been a satisfying solution for me in the past six years, I haven’t started one in the past few months. Instead, I have taken on two knitting projects. One is a prayer shawl, with a simple back and forth of knit three, purl three. The other is an afghan, with a knit row of 215 stitches, followed by a knit, slip a stitch row, all with two strands of alpaca. The heaviness of this afghan takes more concentration and physical effort than the prayer shawl, but each provides me the freedom to ‘get out of my head’, along with the satisfaction of creating meaning.
I know I’m not the only one challenged to find ways to ‘get out of my head’. We human beings can think too much for our own good; at least I can. Solitude isn’t just about being physically alone; there is mental solitude as well.
Although immersing myself in jigsaw puzzles has been a satisfying solution for me in the past six years, I haven’t started one in the past few months. Instead, I have taken on two knitting projects. One is a prayer shawl, with a simple back and forth of knit three, purl three. The other is an afghan, with a knit row of 215 stitches, followed by a knit, slip a stitch row, all with two strands of alpaca. The heaviness of this afghan takes more concentration and physical effort than the prayer shawl, but each provides me the freedom to ‘get out of my head’, along with the satisfaction of creating meaning.
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With all the shootings, killings and suicide attacks going on in the world, solitude becomes hard to grasp. Much of the time it can’t be observed on the outside, making it more essential that we feel it on the inside. Turning off the TV can help keep positive energy flowing into the universe, but it can also be a way of putting on blinders to keep out what we don’t want to deal with. Where’s the balance? We have to find our own. Because I am an optimist and see the cup half full, I accept as true that I am to use my solitude to send out positive possibilities. If I don’t hold onto my believe that good wins over bad and love over evil, I have no hope. That’s my message. After a few busy weeks socializing, I offer some thoughts on solitude. I loved being with family and friends, as well as the scattered times of solitude. As you know, I treasure large doses alone time, as obvious from the joy and peace I feel in traveling by myself. My husband is the same, although he is most happy tending his garden at home. My extraverted friends need others to energize them. Each of us requires different amounts solitude and socializing; we are healthy we get the amount we need. My thoughts today, however, are with those who can’t stand to be alone at all. I’m not talking about solitude but about loneliness, about lack of life purpose, all under the umbrella on which is written, “Life has no meaning for me.” It is hard to know how to help these people. It does not good to tell them to ‘get a life’ or ‘just get over it.’ Doing something with them can help, but not if it is only filling up the time for them. Leading them to help—psychological, physical and spiritual is a worthy step. There’s no one right way to support these people who are afraid to be alone, but for me a few ideas come to mind under the do-no-harm rubric. Listen, listen, listen; be positive in your own life, both in thought, word and deed; send positive energy, which for me is prayer. I’ve written about this before but whenever we take care of our grandpet, the disconnect between solitude and pets come to mind again. Let me start by saying that I’m not against having a pet; in fact I love dogs and cats, and have had both. But pets and solitude don’t mix well because we always have to respond to our pet. Even when Scuppers was asleep, I would wake up wondering when she’s going to arise to ask for instant breakfast As cute as she is, she always wants to sit on my lap when I meditate. And on this visit, she ate something that didn’t agree with her. Need I say more? Solitude is the time we choose to be companion free; at best, pets are companions. We can’t always get the precise amount of solitude we crave. I choose the word crave, not want, because it indicates a stronger longing, something we can’t do without. Even in the midst of all the good stuff in our lives, some of us can’t get enough time alone. I’m not talking about an hour here or there, but days on end. Of course not everyone likes solitude, but I figure that most of you reading this blog have an inkling of what I’m talking about. There are the extroverts who get their life energy from others, while introverts are energized through solitude. And yet, I don’t think it is a simple question of extrovert or introvert. I am both, although at this time my life, I’m more of an introvert, having satisfied my extroverted self during my parenting and teaching career days. I’m writing about this because this morning I looked out the window and wished I were talking an early morning walk around Florence. I’ve been home a little over a week, and already I’m longing for that special time alone in that special place. Twelve days is long enough, but I’d like to go more often, say every month. Sometimes we can’t have exactly what we want. I know that. But we must do what we can to satisfy our longings. We can start by acknowledging how we feel. I’m here at my new favorite café for early morning writing. It has that old Italian café flavor, which I appreciate more and more as cafes throughout the city receive a modern facelift. In fact, I’ve become a regular here; the barista brings my usual order to my table. I most cherish traveling alone in the morning, which is a solitary time for me when I need to be on my own. Up with my 6:30 alarm, I’m out of the apartment by 7, without a precise plan of where I’ll go, other than find a cappuccino and a church to center myself for the day. I suppose I could negotiate this with a traveling companion, but one of the beauties of being by myself is that all kinds of logistical discussions, which are an essential and part of travel, aren’t present—where and when to eat, what to visit, when to call it a day. Of course I discuss these things with myself, but the conversations are brief and I always get to do what I want. My only compromise is with my other self. This leads me to another benefit of solitary travel, which may be particular to my situation because I come so often to this very familiar place. I spend as much of the day as possible without a plan, figuring that the more I plan, the more ‘obligations’ I put on myself. And that is precisely what I want to leave at home. All the good stuff of family, friends, and church becomes the very impetus to live in the present moment when I come here. Beautiful day, warm weather keeps coming. Great for us in the present moment, but not so wonderful for everyone down the road. What to do—besides hang laundry out to dry and NOT buy bottled water? It is not enough to say that we recycle. Here’s another thought, perhaps related. I recently read something to the effect that the strong are gentle (attributed to James Dean). We who lead our lives in our neighborhoods can more easily be gentle and yet strong, but what about those out there creating and carrying out public policy? Much more complicated. And yet some do offer a gentle demeanor. I have my list, you have yours; I’m sure we have some of the same names. I’m thinking, however, in order to lead a gentle but strong life we require times of solitude, if for no other reason than we need to remember to be gentle, remember not to say the first thing that comes to mind, remember that a gentle word is kind, strong and powerful-- as in loving. The men are here again at the middle table at the café. At one end they are joined by a woman who is holding forth. At the other end a young girl, accompanied by an older man, is writing. They don’t seem to be aware that they are in the midst of this sacred space. Maybe it doesn’t matter. Yesterday I took Bus 7 to Fiesole and walked up the hill to the Monastery of St. Francis. It is one of my quiet places when I come to Florence, as the Feltrinelli Café RED is one of my noisy places. The monk’s dormitory is my favorite here at the monastery. Up the stairs and there there are the their cells, eight of them. It is all I need, except for heat in the winter. I dream of living there, as another person in another era, but also as me, transported, leaving everything behind, without a care in the world. This dream, like all dreams, can catapult me toward finding my bliss, discovering my NOW. The easy step to articulate, but difficult to carry out, is that I must leave my stuff behind. Not much will fit into my cell at the monastery. Without the stuff there would be less to do, less cleaning and straightening, less projects to choose from. Leaving obligations behind is more complicated. Would I really want day after day filled with silence, solitude and simplicity? For now this monastery overlooking the Arno valley and the Duomo is my muse.
On Saturday I took a twelve hour bus tour to the Cinque Terra—the five towns along the coast northwest of Florence, now declared a World Heritage site by UNESCO . A two hour bus ride, lots of walking, several trains and a magnificent boat ride to travel from town to town. The views were spectacular on what was considered the last day of the season. Last tour from Florence, last day the boat taxi would run from town to town, and perhaps the last day of sun before the rainy months. Joining a tour offers more sociability than the solitary tours I create for myself. It can be pleasant to share travel stories with others, but for me, only in small doses. I understand this is a way for people to process their travels, but I don’t want or need to do much of that any more. My journal and this blog provide my means of sorting out what is important to me. As my photos attest, the spectacular scenery in the same category of the universally agreed upon beauty of fall foliage. I tried to spend most of my time, especially on the boat, breathing it in, feeling the moment, and not thinking—that continual challenge of mine to stay in the moment. I have a long way to go, but at least I sometimes remember NOT to think. This was one of those days. The other special experience was walking around the cemetery up the hill from the Monastery and Church of the Capuchin Friars. This was what I call a ‘living cemetery’, which means it is cared for and visited. A women was tending to each grave with fresh flowers. A man who had grown up in the area had come from Genoa to visit the grave of his grandfather. “I know so many people here now,” he told me. |
Contact me: bobbifisher.mac@mac.com
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