“Have you ever heard the wonderful silence just before the dawn? Or the quiet and calm just as a storm ends? Or perhaps you know the silence when you haven’t the answer to a question you’ve been asked, or the hush of a country road at night, or the expectant pause of a room full of people when someone is just about to speak, or, most beautiful of all, the moment after the door closes and you’re alone in the whole house? Each one is different, you know, and all very beautiful if you listen carefully.”
Norton Juster, The Phantom Tollbooth
One of the more surprising developments to come with grief for my father, who died from interstitial lung disease in July 2023, has been a profound sense of aloneness.
I don’t mean loneliness; that sad, near-self-pity zone where the word “abandoned” has been written in crayon soap on every bathroom wall. I’ve felt lonely at some point in every chapter of my life. It’s a real bitch of a feeling and can fester whether you’re staring mindlessly at your phone screen at 3:00 in the morning or fine dining with the love of your life or attending a party surrounded by your closest friends.
This is more of a tangible recognition of and acquaintanceship with solo-ness. Being one person, single and solitary, separate and distinct from anyone else. I would expect this transition if I had lost a spouse rather than a father, but it is there, all the same. In my entire life, I can’t recall feeling as singular as I feel navigating the world without Charley.
And I have to say: it’s been a gift.
I’ve loved integrating this insight into my life — who I am, how I think, the choices I make every day — as me, and for me.
Using my alone time to explore going back to college, to start writing a new play, and to say “yes” to as many opportunities to surround myself with beautiful things as I can.
Learning to see myself as complete and whole, and realizing that I do all right, with only myself as company.
Slowing down and getting to know the person I’ve become, and am becoming.
While I would seize the opportunity to have my dad here — to write this post knowing that he’s going to read it this evening and smile — I find comfort in discoveries like this one, stumbled on like little notes he snuck into my pocket.
In my aloneness, I craft my next moment, and the next, and the next, and it’s my turn to smile, knowing how much he would have loved this.
Muttering Retreats 