The pull of solitude

I have lived with people surrounding me as long as I can remember.

I was born into an Irish-Catholic family of four with three more siblings arriving after me. We always had a large assortment of aunts, uncles, cousins, and neighbors coming and going from our family room. One of my first memories is all of us crowding around the television to watch news of Kennedy's assassination.

In high school, I started dating the boy from two doors down. We went to college together, both living in crowded co-ed dorms, and upon graduation, John and I were married. We were happy every single day we were together.

We lived with his family for a year before I got pregnant. One baby later, the four of us moved into our own house.

Life with John was fun-filled and active. In addition to the four children we eventually had, there were always others around. His brothers' kids, my extended family, the neighbors, our kids' friends, whoever. We still lived in the same Chicago neighborhood where we'd both grown up, and it was all one big happy family.

The constants were lots of people around and rollicking good times. My role was to vaguely manage the chaos, making sure there was always food on the table and a welcome sign on the door.

As our own kids got older, nothing changed much. Our second oldest stayed at home during college, and by the time the two youngest were thinking about moving out, the oldest had come back with a wife and baby of his own. We also gained an exchange student in the mix. And our house was a second home to my nieces and nephews. While a few of my friends were experiencing the depression of having an empty nest, our own nest seemed like it would never empty.

Then, one day, John was driving home and passed out at the wheel. There was no serious accident, but he woke up with a headache that was paralyzing. Many rounds of doctor visits and every test imaginable later, we had the news. Brain cancer. Six weeks later, he was gone.

I'd had no time to prepare for this and didn't know what to do with myself. I spent a couple months doing the predictable crying, eating, and sleeping, surrounded by family and friends. I was debilitated by the most god-awful emptiness I'd ever felt.

One day a friend suggested that I might benefit from some time alone.

Alone? My reaction was a complete blank. I looked at her, smiling weakly and thanking her for the well-intentioned advice. But said that I didn't think so.

A week went by with little more thought of it. Somewhere in my subconscious, though, the idea kept nudging me. I remembered a book John and I had read about a couple who had snuck away from their everyday lives to take a year-long vacation on a boat completely by themselves. We'd laughed when we read it because being alone was something we'd never really thought of. It just wasn't part of our life. And we loved our life.

Two weeks later, I made my decision. Three weeks after that, I was in my car headed west. I never liked flying and figured that driving a couple thousand miles would give me something to occupy my mind.

I didn't tell anyone I was going on this trip until right before I left, and still there was a big send-off with over 50 people. Although no one pressured me for an explanation, I felt uncomfortable trying to put into words what I was doing or why. If for no other reason than that, I felt the slightest shadow of relief as I drove west out of Chicago on I-55.

That first day, I drove over 400 miles, ending up on the west side of Missouri. Just me and my Dodge Neon. Thinking back on it, it's hard to describe what I felt. Quiet. Focused. Centered. Deeply, deeply alone. But not completely in a bad way. There was something pulling me, not really westward but rather somewhere inside of myself.

The second day was better. The third day more so. By the time I got to New Mexico, I was feeling that this might have not have been a bad idea.

I was planning to stay at a bed and breakfast in Albuquerque, but when I got there, the city seemed crowded. I felt a pull away from the people and the commotion.

I continued to drive south and found myself in a small town called Hatch on the bank of the Rio Grande. I stayed there for almost a month, far longer than I'd ever planned. I spent a lot of time walking, reading, being inside myself, not dwelling on what I'd lost or what I'd do next. Being alone was addicting.

As I drove home, I felt like I was going away from something I needed. After returning home, it didn't take me long to decide to move. I wasn't sure exactly what my plans were but I knew it was a time for a new phase of my life. Telling family and friends was hard, more for the effect I knew it would have on them – there was no hesitation on my part.

Now, I wake up every day in a bed by myself and in a home that is mine alone. My nearest neighbor is three miles away. The nearest town with amenities like a doctor and a grocery is an hour's drive. I don't go there often.

The land is vast and empty. The sky is huge and ever-changing. The quiet is addicting. The only sounds I hear are those I make and the random song of a bird or occasional gust of wind blowing past.

Of course, I have a phone and computer if I crave conversation, but mostly the calls and emails are incoming.

I am alone. I am at peace.

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997 words