on aloneness and a starry night

It was a starry night, and I was still growing used to how early evening settled in the city. One second, I was walking along Riverside Park in the brightness of Autumn, gawking at the leaves spiraling to the ground like golden embers -and the next, darkness seeped down onto Manhattan and I reckoned it might be wise to halt the walk and head home. Since it was a Saturday night, however, and the apartment would most likely be forcibly cramped with my roommate's houseguests, I thought it might be nice to stay in the city awhile. I had spent the day with friends, filling my cup and nurturing that part of my soul which feasts upon connectedness and conversation. But, at that very moment, I found myself drawn to the idea of a stretch of time spent alone with a book (Anne of Green Gables, to be exact). 

So I traipsed eastward, toward the innards of the Upper West Side, with no destination in mind. I eventually fell upon a corner French bistro with large windows and dim lights, and knew I'd found the spot to fulfill my appetite and nursle my romantic reveries of Paris. The host, contrite, burst forth with kind apologies for the lack of tables, telling me the only seat available was the wobbly table in the corner, by the door, which would every so often be encumbered by draughts of cold wind whenever new guests would walk in. All I could see was the generous window view overlooking Broadway Avenue, and the wide perspective I'd have on the restaurant (for people-watching). I promptly accepted. 

I spent the evening looking around, watching locals clinking wine glasses and lamenting city rent (yes, I eavesdropped, as this is part of the deal with Manhattan dining). My phone thrown deep in my bag, somewhere unbeknownst to me, I aimed my attention to words strung together by L. M. Montgomery (words that, admittedly, made me miss home). I feasted on a bowlful of moules frites and buttery baguette, engrossed with the unexpected, improvised sapidity and lavishness of this starry night. Notes of cabaret floated through the restaurant, gripping me with the playful musing that I'd somehow voyaged to the 3e arrondissement, without my realizing it.

Just a few years ago, the mere thought of an evening alone would have left me feeling weary, and the notion of spending an above-average sum of money on a far-from-average meal would have left me feeling guilty. And while I don't want to condone thoughtless indulgence nor reckless consumption, I think there's something beautiful hidden in carving out the time to play, and to delight oneself in life's good gifts. Too, I think it is a good thing to wend oneself to times spent alone, and learn to find pleasure in them (and I still have work to do on this). For introverts, this might come naturally. For extroverts like me, silence and solitude are perceived as unattractive and threatening. It might seem silly to some, but solitary outings initially required me to muster up heaps of courage. Not only was I consumed with thoughts of insecurity as to the opinions of others (will onlookers assume I have no friends? what if someone I know sees me sitting here by myself?), but I was also fearful of the daunting prospect of fully acknowledging my own being and thoughts. The truth is, it is difficult to not take heed to myself and the details of my life (both good and ugly) when perfectly alone, given the absence of a conversation or date to divert me from my feelings of angst, my soul's deepest longings, my communion with God. 

In recent years, as I have intentionally sought out moments of solitude (whether in contemplative silence and prayer, or in blithe jaunts like this one), I have found that my self-appreciation has deepened and that I am readily learning the unique gift of being myself (and yes, I plan on reading this book in coming weeks). As a result, my desire to appoint times for aloneness has swelled: I grasp the sui generis value of withdrawing myself (albeit healthily!), to invest in myself and in my inner life. 

Seasons are particular, and I recognize that my current status of being unmarried and childless makes frequent solitude practically possible. But I would urge all, in however creative means possible, to consider aloneness as a gift. Whether it be locking oneself into a quiet room in the house with a beloved book, going on a walk without a destination in mind, or making a reservation for a weekend away, solitude is a good and unselfish practice granting us the possibility to come home within ourself whilst simultaneously finding refuge under the wings of God our Father, who delights in giving His children good gifts. It is an invitation to find true contentment in our thoughts, to come face to face with our belovedness, and to delight in our very own one-of-a-kindness. 

On that starry night, at the corner table in the bistro on Broadway, I was reminded that God is fond of me. He finds joy in seeing me feast on flavorful fare and marvel at the beauty of a book, and is not offended by my intended (and finite!) lack of productivity and time spent playing and enjoying. It is decisively wrong to assume that God is only pleased by our labor and overt worship (like praying, praising, reading our Bibles, listening to sermons and hymns). He is the generous bestower of time, of joy, of the world's sounds and tastes and sights to savor -why refuse to revel in them? Why not lean into the quiet whisper of His voice, calling us His beloved son or daughter, in who He is well pleased? 

When I stepped out of the restaurant to finally head home, letting the brisk wind of deep autumn caress my face, I was well aware that -despite my faults and the places I fall short- His love and delight for me know no bounds. I am His. And I needed the quietness of time alone to remind me of this.