Even when I dream of solitude, I know I cannot endure it.
I imagine some cabin near Katahdin, the two of us deep in January at the end of a road, daylight at 8, lights on at 3, silence all day, feeding a fire in the stove all day, the phones useless, just books and walks and the existence of winter bears.
Then the crazy would set in.
I’m the hairy one.
No, I’m stuck liking most people and being forever curious about their stories. But most friends appear and disappear. The few who have remained make bonds that are like flakes of wood split off a bolt cut for firewood — they have become a series of messages and texts, a short coffee, a long breakfast. Three have gone on for years. One is a relationship of mutual help-me help-you lift and haul. We have argued good naturedly for a long time.
They all bring the comfort of conversation and laughter and a careful avoidance of certain subjects. We keep our secrets, occasionally vent, and do not grind our teeth or watch the clock when we find a morning to meet.
I miss letters, those relics, that loss. I love the act of writing by hand, of impressing myself physically upon the page, adding a drawing, composing in sentences like water flowing in a stream that is always seamlessly going somewhere. Those sentences are more the voice we were meant to possess than the hesitant crackling of our speech on a phone or the offhand, utilitarian signals of a text. The slowness of the back and forth is another charm. We drop it at the post office, anticipate its flight and arrival, the pleasure it will give, and then luxuriate in the expectation of a reply.
But considering the scattering, disjointed madness that has overtaken our waking hours and the real madness of daily life, we must take what we can with others and enjoy connection where we find it, especially now, when every day’s news brings a nightmare we never thought we’d see here. Our need to console and conjure hope and be heard is more important than ever.
