The Solitude We Are

"To speak again of solitude, it becomes ever clearer that in truth there is nothing we can choose or avoid. We are solitary. We can delude ourselves and act as if this were not so. That is all we can do. How much better to realize it from the start that is what we are, and to proceed from there. It can, of course, make us dizzy, for everything our eyes rest upon will be taken from us, no longer is anything near, and what is far is endlessly far."
- Rilke (Jan 27 selection from "A Year with Rilke")

I miss Italy. I was there for ten days last spring after deciding that I would fly from London to Pisa all by myself, so that I could get on a bus to Siena to visit a young woman who is probably my oldest friend. It was, at times, very unsettling and nerve wracking to travel to a country on your own without speaking a lick of Italian. But I miss the long hours when I would wander around the city alone, poking down side streets, stumbling upon gardens, wandering into churches ... my friend was preoccupied with classes most afternoons, so I would go for hours without speaking to anyone (aside from feeble attempts to buy gelato in Italian). I've never gone that long in silence. I would sit in the Piazza del Campo when I was tired and I would sketch and people watch. I don't think I've ever written so profusely in my life. When I was alone I turned to my journal. My solitude felt intense and overwhelming and deeply uncomfortable, but perhaps that was the value of it. I wrote pages upon pages every day, in the afternoon in the piazza and at night before I went to bed. The came Florence; I spent an entire afternoon alone in the Uffizi gallery and a full half hour in the Botticelli room. I climbed to the top of Brunelleschi's dome. I practically meditated over the glory of my meals. The funny thing is that I both hated and loved the days spent alone ... in some moments I wanted any way out, anyone to talk to, just so that I wouldn't have to feel so alone. Other moments, I savored the feeling.

I don't quite recall the point of all this, except to remind myself that it happened, to let out that longing for anywhere-but-here and a longing to be in a place where I was always present. Perhaps I feel this way because this week I've not had a minute to myself. I always wonder if, by searching for something beyond the daily grind, I am romanticizing silence, solitude, God, whatever. Maybe I'm inventing what I'm searching for.

On the other hand, does it matter? Is it okay to just buy into something if it makes you feel more sane, and more compassionate?