I have never been good at being alone. Even when I think I'm alone, I have realized that it is a false alone, busying myself with a task or filling up the quiet with some music or ticking through a to-do list in my head. There is a ridiculous panic that sets in too, when I think that I have strategically planned my day to be full, with no time to think even for a minute that I could be alone and lonely, but there is a glitch in the schedule, and here I am, just, Me. I thought I was getting better. I took a trip to Spain to learn about being alone. And then I gathered friends and the most beautiful hearts for my walk. I would walk the days alone, but I wasn't really alone, I could slow my pace and wait for someone behind to keep me company, and I secretly hoped someone would catch up. I spent time in cities by myself, and thought I'd be fine when I got home. But that was travel. It wasn't the ordinary. And there have already been a few times of engulfing fear and sadness when there isn't someone to sit with, walk with, talk with.
Why the panic? Why the angst and sorrow in such a short period of time? Will I not gather for breakfast in the morning, or could I not call my mother? Or, better yet, can I not accept myself as good enough company, let my hands be idle, let my world be quiet?