To Be or Not To Be Alone

There is little “alone” time these days. One of the pluses of marriage is the guarantee of companionship at any given time—you never really have to think about what you’re going to do on a Friday night or a lazy Sunday afternoon: he is always there.

Already the introvert, becoming lazy is even more of a temptation for me—socially, that is—because without any effort at all, the husband is always going to be around to listen to my ramblings (and if he doesn't want to listen, too bad, because he has to—another plus of marriage).

Then, when the husband’s got a business trip or he’s out for one reason or another with the guys, I find myself wondering what to do with myself. It sounds pathetic, I know, but really, a much needed wake up call.

Being the workaholic that I am (still partly denying this condition that has been attributed to me by my husband)—the solitude is necessary—but because it comes so rarely, when it does arrive, I’m either in shock that it has come or I’m completely indecisive, not wanting to squander the hard-to-come-by moment.

Like last night—the husband had a bachelor’s party to attend. I estimated he probably wouldn’t be back until two or three a.m. (I was too comatose to look at the time when I finally heard him come through the door).

I came back from dinner to a quiet, empty condo. I stared at the laptop on my desk—maybe I should do some writing. Then I looked at my books—or reading. Then I looked at the television—or just vegetate on the couch, watching a movie. Earlier in the evening, I contemplated calling a friend and going for drinks—but realized that I was physically too worn to do anything else but stay put (tiredness seems to be a state I am perpetually in these days).

That’s when I began to think about how “spoiled” I have been by my marriage—by the multitude of tasks I’ve been juggling this summer (all of which, though wearing on the body, have been valuable to the spirit)—by my family and friends. All of these parts of my life have occupied so much of me, have filled my life so fruitfully—that there didn’t seem to be any need for solitude, for quiet self-examination.

That’s when I got to thinking about how many of us really value our solitude, or realize how much we need it—the stillness, the silence. Perhaps because stillness and silence are barely recognizable to us: the second they appear, we instinctually do away with them, and POOF, they're gone.

How deeply we are afraid of being alone. And by alone, I mean in the positive sense. Where we consciously give ourselves time to refuel, evaluate where we are (or where we're going)—where we spend some actual real time with God.

Instead, we, unwittingly, upon becoming aware that a window might be open—almost instantly fill it up with an activity, dial a number on our cell phone, open up MSN messenger, start doing household chores (yes—that’s me), turn on the television… the list is unending. Anything to engage our minds so that we don’t have to pay heed to the more weighty aspects of our lives.

Maybe we’re afraid of having a good, honest look at ourselves. Maybe because if we really took a look at ourselves, if we really tried to heed the stillness and the silence, God might speak to us, or worse, try to change us—and we sure don’t want to be changed.

I wound up picking up a book (by D. Martyn Lloyd-Jones—you can hear him speaking to you), parked myself on the couch, a fluffy pillow in my arms, the reading lamp on—and read for two hours. A little after midnight, I snuggled in bed but didn’t actually fall asleep until the husband came home. Like I said, I’ve become too used to having him around.