Retreat #2: Alone
I didn’t foresee the quiet and lonely testing of my commitment to taking these retreats. In the beginning, I faced a number of obstacles with work schedules and in finding a private and affordable place. Those problems didn’t faze me; I expected to put some effort into rearranging my life and locating a place. However, I’m surprised by how difficult it is to go on this second retreat.
My car trunk loaded with clothing, writing and drawing materials, lotions, candles and camera, I leave home to attend my women’s spirituality group. From there, I’ll go to the Robin’s Nest. Several times during the meeting, someone expresses envy at my “getting away from it all”. The statement is lighthearted, and followed by laughter. Each time, loneliness surges through me. Although I laugh with the others, I’m aware of being outside the bantering, of standing alone in my actions. When the meeting ends at five o’clock, reluctance rolls over me. I know that all the other women are going home and resuming their routines. I’m heading out of town to face the unknown. What am I going to do out there in the “wilderness”? Isn’t it silly to be by myself for three days? I don’t even have a rational reason for doing this. What am I trying to achieve?
I’ve left my family and familiar distractions before, but I’ve always joined up with someone at the other end of my trip. I’ve gone for the purpose of hiking or visiting or to attend a seminar. Until last month, I’d never done it for the sake of being with myself; I know no other person who has. If I were heading off to sail around the world, to compete in an athletic event, or to receive a prestigious award, there might be some fanfare and words of good wishes. As it is, no sendoff accompanies me. Everyone appears to view it as a “nice break”, a luxury. No one has a clue how hard this is. I myself didn’t know until this moment how frightening it feels. Fear grips my stomach and my heart aches with lonesomeness. I consider aborting the whole mission; no one would have to know.
The hostess of the meeting invites me to stay for a while, to linger over a simple supper and intimate talk. My heart soars at the invitation. Although my friend knows me well, the ease with which she offers another hour of her companionship tells me that she fails to recognize my teetering position. I want to sit at her table inside her cozy apartment and chat while she serves me crackers and antipasto, or leftover soup. I want to curl up on her couch for the night.
But if I do those things, I won’t keep faith with myself. I have to go because I have to go, and my heart plummets like a duck shot out of the sky. In theory, a solitary retreat is beautiful. In practice, it’s…well, solitary.
I stop at a grocery store to buy milk, cheese, produce, eggs, soy sauce, micro-waveable rice, canned soup, bread. Then I pull into a gas station to top up the air in a leaky tire. I drive west and leave the lights of the city behind. As my tiny world spins farther and farther away from the companionship of other humans, fear crawls around inside my gut. Turning south onto a road less traveled, I become aware of a little, quivery mass sitting inside me, on top of my stomach. It flutters every once in a while. I wonder if it’s my spirit. It feels small and weak, yet delighted. Tears spill out of my eyes as I drive. Something very deep within me gasps with gratitude, and murmurs ,“Thank you, thank you, thank you”.