An Anatomy of Solitude
Solitude is my self-made incubation container and lately it's been my silent home. In periods of important and/or monumental transition, I seek refuge there; where my perceptions are often clouded in grey, where my thoughts are cluttered and murky, where my vibrancy is muted, and where my usual shimmering eyes are layered with an ancient sadness.
In solitude, I find peace. In silence, I find clarity. In loneliness, I find grief, and in grief, I find truth.
Communication only makes it worse. Going out only seems to highlight my hermit-like tendencies. I feel fake and detached, like I'm lying a great, big lie as I forcibly smile at the strangers walking by me or as I make superficial, two-dimensional conversation. In periods like these I have no interest in investing into trivial conversation, or in listing the 'do's' and 'going-to-do's' of my life. Because underneath the playful, sensual surface of my smile there's a thick layer of a grey-teal-blue, of the beige walls I'm wrapped in day in and day out as I read and write my way through the achy rawness of my Self.
In the shadows I've always lived. I've sought it out all of my life, even as a child. It's where I create beautiful things and where I'm most curious about the tick-tock gears of my mind. It's where my subconscious anger transmutes and transforms into creative power. It's where I've played music from, sang from, painted from, photographed and written from. It's where things are most fertile, most moist and giving for me. Right there, in the shadow-plains, trickled with cracks of light.
However, I'm not afraid of the dark. I'm not afraid of the underworld. If anything, it may even be my soul's conscious travel destination where the silence allows for the winds and rains to roar and hum wildly.
There is nowhere to run in the dark. No matter where you turn there you'll be: in the dark with a mirror reflecting your true face. I tap into my grief and the deepest, darkest places of my soul. I can look with a sharp, Eagle-overview and fierce discernment at my inner landscape, the ancient pains I carry, the sorrows I feel from those around me, the grief I feel of the world, without it corrupting me. I invite it in. I invite it to go through me, and then, with a gracious and loving farewell, I let it go.
The time will come when the solitude will pass. It always does and it always will.