I typically enjoy and s a v o r time alone. Me time. Two days to do as I please. Sleeping in, beginning the day with writing rather than breakfast. Words fuel me for now. It’s quiet, no one needs anything from me. It’s delightful and it’s eerie.
Of course, there’s tons of work to be done. Still so many boxes to be unpacked or stored or finally pitched. Why on earth do we keep so much STUFF? My decision-making pace has slowed as the essential bases are covered. Sleeping, eating, studying, relaxing, laundering are all possible, functional, even comfortable in some spots. Peripheral chaos is tolerable especially when we go to work/school 5 days a week. Slack is something we cut ourselves.
I will do some of that work, not all.
Alone and to myself. It has been a while.
I like myself alone. I’m creative and pensive, lazy and productive, at ease and sometimes at peace.
Today feels like a dusty science experiment set I’ve recovered from the basement. What’s in here for me? What can I make of this?
So. Much. Quiet. Silence as a quantity. Measurable, finite. Being alone and knowing the silence will have an end.
I have spent so much time sorting through things – past, past, past, past – each item arguing for its relevance, its right to remain. Every decision entails a judgment, temporary or otherwise. That’s what makes it so exhausting. I am the judge granting storage or sentencing to disposal.
Time alone means time to sort myself out, to sort out my feelings, to pull layers apart and hold them up to the light.
That’s how dealing with stuff becomes much easier. A diversion. A ‘look busy’ strategy. I got a a million of ’em.
But the self is persistent. Knowing. Recognizes opportunity in a heartbeat. My self thrives on understanding and clarity. Won’t let herself be put on hold for too long. The reckoning is coming. She knows. She’s on it.
Given that, I’d say I’m in good hands. In my own good hands. Yes. That’s a fine way to spend this precious time alone.