GOING IT ALONE

February 25 2014                 Maggie's photoI left New York three weeks ago today.  As usual, when I try to measure time it becomes meaningless, but in a joyful, so what kind of way. Not that every minute has felt joyful. Certainly there have been moments when a yawning space of aloneness has surrounded me, moments when I have uttered Joel’s name aloud, as though it were an unanswerable question, the vowels and consonants of his familiar name separating themselves from the whole and disappearing into the l’air du temps, the mists of the Luberon inhaling him and leaving me with ash in the mouth; a small taste, dare I say, of what widowhood might hold in store.But then the business of life summons me back to the present. I get in my little Fiat, back it out of its treacherous ledge of a parking spot, managing to once again avoid the ditch. This valley is rife with ditchery; deep irrigation channels edging roads barely wide enough for two cars. And then, the Fiat being loathe to attempt the slightest incline, I floor the accelerator until the clutch surrenders and with a faint whiff of burning rubber, depart for neighboring villages.To Apt, to recharge the phone, buy paints and scrumptious almonds decadently cloaked in chocolate. To Coustellet, to drop off dry cleaning and pick up some scallops, their crescents of orange roe clinging to the full moon of their pale flesh. If the potter is in her studio I might pick up some more dishes to add to my collection. And then, on to Robion for organic cheeses and ice-cream, fresh veggies and salad greens. Some days I only make it as far as the woodpile, bringing back enough logs for the day’s fire; feeling the strength of my body as I haul the dead weight past the fish pond and into the house.The future is rarely as we imagine it might be, is it? I came back here alone, imagining myself working on the revision of my novel, painting, playing piano, reading, none of which I have done to the extent I had imagined I would. I’d like to be able to say it’s because the tasks of daily living take up more time when not shared or divvied up with one’s other. But I think there’s more to it than that. Perhaps, after a year of being together 24/7, I wanted to experience the exact opposite; wanted, in fact, to live in the echo that such a space provides. The echo of the self coming up against itself; the reminder of one’s tininess, as well as one’s capability. And to experience a kind of void that uninterrupted thoughts fall into.This is only the second time in 3 weeks that I have picked up my pen, after a year of almost daily writing. I think I needed to feel its absence, too. To let air into every cranial cranny, to feel unfocussed, without purpose other than to merely be. To discover the habits that continue in spite of being unseen; the vanity of the mirror, the neat and tidy house – although once in a while I have allowed a dish or utensil to sit unwashed in the sink! But in general, I am surprised at how little has changed; the linens are still laundered on Friday, I still sleep on my side of the bed.What strikes me as really interesting is that I feel less alone here on my own than I did all those year that we lived together in NY. It wasn’t only that Joel was uptown in his studio all day, while I was alone at my desk downtown. It had more to do with not feeling connected to my environment, the way I do here and in Tuscany. Nature nourishes me, it comforts me in ways that cities never do. And in the city everyone is always so very busy, whereas here, in Europe, people seem to take time to be in the day, instead of allowing time to take them away from the day. This is not a judgment of others; I don’t mean to imply that people are in some way superior here. But surely, each of us owes it to ourselves to find our own comfort level.Perhaps that’s a big piece of why I came back here alone: I wanted to find out just how comfortable I really am here, without the comfort of being with the man I love. What I find is that I can feel both comfortable being here, while at the same time missing Joel.We’re all so complex, aren’t we? For someone who loves to be the center of attention, I also love my solitude. And in these 3 weeks of solitude, of letting go of the need to be accomplishing, I find I am refreshed, ready to begin work again on the manuscript. During these weeks, I have received feedback on the novel from a dozen readers, many of them friends, a few, professionals. And in the silence of my solitude their opinions and suggestions have drifted in and out of my consciousness, sometimes bringing confusion, sometimes surprise, and most often gratitude and encouragement.What all these voices have enriched, is the belief in my own voice; a voice which while not having spoken out loud much during these weeks, has nonetheless been engaged in a deep conversation with myself. How important it is to disengage from relationship once in a while, in order to hear oneself think without the reliance of another’s opinion or agreement. And yet, how good it will be, two weeks from now, to once again sit with my dear Joel and pick up the conversation where we left off.