Alone Time

Five hours.

I made my dinner and ate it.  I cleaned up the dishes and washed the saucepan.  I had one last call with my husband before he boarded his plane; I had my daily call with my dad.  I wiped down the table.

And then I had five hours ahead of me.  Five hours alone.  I immediately welled up with tears.

I didn’t realize at first that was what had me so overwhelmed.  I always get melancholy saying goodbye to my husband; I’d had a long day.  But that wasn’t it.  The feeling I had was relief and bewilderment and wonder and sadness all mingled.

It had been so long since I was by myself.

That’s not to say I’m not alone sometimes.  I’m a loner by nature.  For all intents and purposes, I spent half my day alone at my computer—either writing or working.  But that’s not being alone, not really: I’m sitting by myself in the room, but my work chat is filled up with questions and comments and people’s thoughts, and I am getting texts, and I am constantly in meetings.

And when I’m alone outside, or even taking prayer walks, I get texts—from family, from friends, from colleagues, from random spam numbers I don’t know.  And then my husband and I fritter away the evening on dinner and chores and relaxing together before bed.  I call my dad. 

Five hours alone is a wealth of riches.

Suddenly I had time to think.  I could let my mind wander.  No need to jump on to the next task or question or engage in a conversation.  I was able to sit quietly and just…be.  I read a little.  I wrote some.  I watched the birds outside and petted my cats.  I listened to some good music I’d been wanting to hear.

I prayed.  I thought of God.  I marveled at how little I have the space to do this in an ordinary day.

This, I realized, is why people loaded up their cars and drove hours away just to attend a silent retreat.  This is why people were embracing digital detoxes.  This is what drives parents outside to sit in their cars in the garage in nothing but silence. 

Quiet.  Solitude.  Time with oneself.

We’re bad at this culturally.  Everything in America tells us to connect, connect, connect.  We never stop talking.  There’s always words, noise, clutter, people around us—whether in our phones or at our sides.  With our texts and with social media we carry around community with us everywhere we go.  We’re not alone, even when we think we are.

But we’re bad at this as Christians, sometimes, too.

It is de rigeur now to talk in evangelical circles, at least, about how Christian life is best lived in community.  This is why we have small groups, and large groups, and large small groups, and potlucks.  We are supposed to live church like they lived church in Acts, to be breaking bread and praying together and being around each other perpetually, living out God’s good work. 

To be clear: it is important to live in community.

It is also important to be alone with yourself and with God.

But oh, we don’t like that nearly as much.  Because real solitude with oneself and God turns you inward, very quickly, makes you reflect on yourself.  Makes you think.  Time alone sends you remember what was, and what isn’t any more; what you’ve lost and what you miss; what you wish you’d done; what you’d like to do; how little time you have to do it all.

I like being alone.  It’s a trait of mine—was a trait of my mother’s—to crave solitude. I don’t need people around all the time.  In fact, I’d often prefer they not be around.  I’m an introvert to the bone.  And if you’d asked me if I got a lot of time alone, I’d have said yes prior to today.

But I’m realizing that’s not the case.

I always let other people and voices crowd in.  Sometimes it’s texts.  Sometimes it’s lingering over work emails.  Sometimes it’s simply revisiting conversations, people, indignities, in my mind even when I’m supposed to be by myself.  I’m forever inviting the world in.

Yet time alone can be so restorative.  Five hours later and I’m transformed; I have already felt a real shift in my priorities and my understanding.  I’ve asked forgiveness for some things I hadn’t previously considered.  I’m grateful for things I hadn’t had time to notice.  I’m thinking, really thinking, along with God about my life and everything going on right now.

So please, make the time for yourself.

It doesn’t have to be five hours.  An hour will do, or half that.  But find the time to just breathe, with no demands, away from the phone and the computer, away from the messages and conversations and dialogues—just you and God.

It’s unnerving.  It’s unsettling.

It’s supposed to be—because it will reorient you to your own life, force you to look at yourself clearly, and ask you to reevaluate what you’re doing and where you are spending your time.

We need community.  But solitude is critical, too.