Recently, while perusing the stacks at my local library, I came across, “The Solitude of Thomas Cave,” by Georgina Harding. (Of course it was the title, that caught my attention.) The novel, set in 1616 during the early whaling expeditions around Greenland, is a rather haunting story of Thomas Cave, who on a shipmate’s wager that no man can survive the winter there alone, remains behind and waits for the whaling ship to return—which it does. The story has many flashbacks and is held together by a narrator, as well as by Cave’s journal entries and the narration of Thomas Goodlad, a young sailor, who befriends Cave on those voyages and who keeps in touch with him afterwards as Cave wanders around, finally settling alone on the English coast.
It struck me that after spending that winter just trying to survive, Cave never talks about his experiences nor his accompanying thoughts or feelings. Although it is evident that his relationship with God has deepened, it, too, is beyond verbal expression. And yet God appears in some quiet, subtle way as miracles are performed. By Cave? By God? Part of the mystery.
All of us longing for solitude find ways to share parts of our search. We talk, take pictures, do art, write, and even blog, and like Thomas Cave we show by example. So many ways. But even with all these words and ways, we know that it is not all to be exposed. We solitudes live in our own secret garden, which we cherish as part of the mystery.
It struck me that after spending that winter just trying to survive, Cave never talks about his experiences nor his accompanying thoughts or feelings. Although it is evident that his relationship with God has deepened, it, too, is beyond verbal expression. And yet God appears in some quiet, subtle way as miracles are performed. By Cave? By God? Part of the mystery.
All of us longing for solitude find ways to share parts of our search. We talk, take pictures, do art, write, and even blog, and like Thomas Cave we show by example. So many ways. But even with all these words and ways, we know that it is not all to be exposed. We solitudes live in our own secret garden, which we cherish as part of the mystery.