The Art of Being Alone

And it truly is an art, to find the balance between alone-ness and loneliness. Living alone only seems to heighten my feelings of self-consciousness as I get to know Seattle, making me feel sheepish when I catch myself talking…to myself. Though, I countered, why should I feel embarrassed? Only God hears my mindless self-directed ramblings, and He doesn’t seem like the type to judge for something like that. I had a point.

The art of being alone means accepting solitude with grace and confidence, not needing others to lean on, yet I’m realizing just how far I am from being comfortable living alone. Sometimes I’m grateful for it, like when I forgot how to functionally drink from a cup and ended up spilling coffee all over myself. I hope, though, that someday I’ll be able to tread confidently into my blunders and embarrassments without heeding the looks of passersby. Because I don’t think I’ll stop making mistakes, but I may one day stop caring if others see.

***

Living alone has brought about some adventures. Without a car and only a mile and change from the grocery store, I decided to make a shopping excursion the primary focus of my second day at the apartment. Getting there was no problem. I’ve quickly discovered walking to be a wonderful opportunity to listen to podcasts and a chance to observe life up close. Any number of times that I’ve walked through the city, I’ve been struck by what I notice just because I’m set at a pace that doesn’t let me skip past anything, although just the other day I spotted something new that I didn’t notice the first time I traversed the path. I kind of love this slow pace of life that I’ve never really experienced before. I got a taste of it in Bangkok, when I got to fill up my free time after completing my work hours, but this is the first time I’m comfortable with these great bouts of time that are free of obligation. Within them, I can get lost and not worry about making it anywhere on time (well, except for my second day of work, but we haven’t reached that point yet).

So, I enjoyed the leisurely stroll to the Quality Food Store, also taking my time once I got there to maximize the deals – if you need help grocery shopping, I’m your gal. But it was when I loaded up with my three paper bags and set off for home that I faced a predicament. While I got a good deal on everything I bought, I failed to factor in just how wise it would be to purchase laundry detergent, a half-carton of milk, a bottle of creamer, and more than a couple of cans along with other items. I mustered a false optimism and walked out of the parking lot anyway. Before long, the bags tugged at my shoulders, and one of them kept slapping against my leg like a petulant child that wanted attention. I shifted. And kept shifting the bags as I paused every once in a while. The paper handles dug into my palms, and the bags themselves betrayed me as they began tearing at the bottom. Finally, I called in reinforcements by plugging in an earbud and switching on my motivating playlist, but even music couldn’t displace the weight of those groceries.

Eventually, the dormant muscles of my biceps screamed awake, and droplets of sweat burst from the pores of my forehead. That old battle cry I always utter now seemed to taunt me as I struggled to make it home: I told myself, “You are a strong, independent woman in need of no man,” but honestly, I might’ve considered going straight to the chapel with any man who had shown up with a functioning vehicle in that moment. Of course, we’d drop off the groceries first. I did pass a number of men along the way and told myself I’m grateful we live in an age when chivalry is dead because it might have undermined the solid independence they sensed rolling off me in waves. Or they just spotted the sweat and desperation and that tumbled out in equal measure. In any case, none offered to help, but I made it back to my apartment with zero casualties, though I had some close calls with the cans of beans and a jar of marinara sauce. Sore for the next couple of days, the grocery trip ended up giving me a good workout. I suppose that optimism wasn’t so false after all.

***

In fact, my somewhat uncharacteristically positive outlook on life extended through the next two days, for my second day on the job. On my first day, I suffered minimal awkwardness while trying to find my bus stop to get to work. For day two, however, I decided that I would walk to work, so I left about an hour early for what the GPS told me would only be a walk of thirty-five minutes. I strode down the street, passed the bus stop, and began making my way toward one of the large bridges in the area, the Ballard Bridge. It’s a beautiful bridge, really, and quickly becoming my favorite spot in all of Seattle. The bridge is also incredibly long, and while I began my trek across, my instincts began nudging me, telling me that I walked away from, not toward, work. But who was I to question the GPS? I kept walking. I got all the way across to the other side before Siri decided that crossing the bridge isn’t what she wanted me to do. I sighed. And turned around.

At this point, I was still making good time, but I kept an eye on it to determine at what point I would have to send that embarrassing text to my boss to explain that I would be late on my second day to work. They say it’s important to make a good first impression, but they never specify that you should try to keep up a good impression the second time through, too. Now I know.

Using my untrustworthy GPS, I discovered a bus stop not too far from the end of the bridge. Despite its location, the next bus wouldn’t pass through for another fifteen minutes, but it would still get me to work a mere five minutes late. I could do that. I texted my boss, who responded with a dash of concern but not even an ounce of frustration. Not that I was worried. Weirdly, I found the whole situation a bit hilarious even though I usually despise being late to any event, let alone a new job where I had yet to establish my dedication. I can only owe that calm to God because I think I would have otherwise dissolved into a mess.

Some nerves still managed to build up as I camped out for the next several minutes, but they soothed as I caught sight of the bus, and then they spiked again as the bus gleefully passed by me without stopping. Dazed, I took a step after it, then another, as I watched it disappear. Then I jumped into action again, and marched up to the next closest bus stop, the one nearest my apartment and back at the beginning. As I walked toward it, I checked on the status of my skirt for the first time that morning and found it had wedged upwards and tucked itself into my backpack. Thank goodness I had the foresight to wear bright blue spandex that probably stood out as a beacon to the figure I had seen walking behind me at a distance.

When I got to the bus stop, I think I uttered a prayer of thanks to God for getting me there, realizing how I must have looked to the man who had been walking behind me and now joined me at the stop. Still, God gave me a calm throughout the day, and by the end, I decided I would try walking again after I received better directions. I relished the stretch along the bike path as bikers and joggers passed by. It was quite relaxing up until the point that one of those bikers turned around and said, albeit kindly, “Your skirt is riding up a bit.” Again, I hastily tugged it back down and determined to keep my hand on my skirt for the rest of the walk home. Thank goodness for the altruism of strangers.

***

As part of my slow-paced life, I decided to take the afternoon of my day off to go read in the park. The book I recently started, The New Jim Crow by Michelle Alexander, caught the eye of a gentleman passing by at the park, where I had settled down.

“Have you read it?” I asked.

“I’m 64 years old. I’ve lived it,” he answered.

He then began to quickly spout out an example from his own life, and we ended up chatting for a bit. I have yet to master this tactic to reel in men of a more appropriate age range. No, those types still seem to think I look like a potato and keep their distance. Regardless, I’m thankful for the interaction, no matter how vaguely creepy it was (he invited me to go out dancing and told me to thank my parents for having me) because I’ve come to appreciate the random moments in life that lead to brief interactions with strangers. Some of the brief interactions I had with people during my time in Thailand – those who reached out even if they didn’t speak English – still occupy my mind. And I can now acknowledge that an interaction doesn’t have to be life-altering to be good. Sometimes it’s just pleasant and works with other countless moments of pleasantness to grow into an optimism that counteracts less hopeful narratives. I hope now to grow into boldness so that I don’t wait on others to initiate but can do it myself. It’s my prayer right now that God will work that in me.

And that’s just what it comes down to during my months here in Seattle – that God would work in me. I recently told someone that I’ve never regretted the difficulties I’ve been through because hindsight only amplifies the affirmation that struggle yields growth. Knowing that from past experiences, I can lean into the slight bumps of this one more easily, and I hope it’s not too ambitious to desire that I will emerge from it as the kind of person who lives more boldly, both in connecting with others and in being alone. It’s less about ambition, and more about faith, though. I’m glad for that because I can more easily believe that God can change me than I can believe that I’ll someday muster up enough of whatever it takes to become a new person. The thought comforts me even while He has also been telling me to live with greater intention to work with Him for change. But that’s a topic I’m still stewing on for another post, so until then, here's to living a more uncomfortable life.

#Seattle #city #embarrassment #faith #God