Being Alone

"Anything we fully do is an alone journey."  This statement by Natalie Goldberg, the author of a book I recently read, caught my attention.  It's similar to something a professor I once had, Dan Fullmer, said when, during a lecture,  he asked, "Is being alone the ultimate identity experience?"   At the moment Gwen died I began feeling alone.  I am lucky--I was surrounded by our children, my brothers and sisters and their families, my sister-in-law and my brother-in-law and their families.  And, of course, I have countless friends who have gathered around me.  Yet, there are times when I realize that I am entirely alone.  The first time I felt that way was shortly after Gwen's death when I awoke one morning and found myself wondering what I might find to do until it was time to go back to bed.  Each day there are times when I still get that sense of being alone.   This sounds self-pitying, but it isn't.  What it is an acknowledgement of the fact that someone I loved for 50 years and who was always at the center of our life together is no longer there.  I had no idea how difficult and painful it would be to simply acknowledge and accept that reality.    And, as Ms. Goldberg correctly states, it has to be an alone journey. 

 I am so grateful for the presence of my family and friends; I love them dearly and try to show it in as many ways as I can.  Yet, the majority of my time is spent alone.  I may be in the presence of others, yet there is always the recognition that is just me, not me and my soul mate.  I felt this recently when I attended a lunch with friends and former neighbors and their spouses.  (A couple of them didn't have their spouse with them, but they were somewhere in the world waiting for them.)  It's hard to describe what that feels like; I've talked about it before, it's as though there are two of me, one of whom is fully present in the conversation and other activities and the other who is longing for the presence of the loving person he should be there with.   I get up and walk away by myself.  For an instant it feels as though everyone is staring at me; then I straighten my shoulders, stand tall and feign interest in the latest offerings from Brooks Brothers.  That's the part where identity becomes important and I accept another little part of  who I am becoming.

I know I'm on the right track in looking at these things, Dear, even though I imagine  many people who are not in similar circumstances to mine might want to just say something like "get over it."  (No one has ever said that to me, nor do I have reason to believe that any who know me would say it.)  Tomorrow will mark eight months since you left me; the love we shared isn't something I  can just "get over."  It's not that simple.  It's not a coincidence that Softly, as I Leave You just came up on my i-Pod.